Chained
by Mars on Fire
Summary: When Tim Shepard and Dallas Winston are stopped by the cops, it's bad news. They've been sentenced to five years hard labour on a chain gang in a crooked Louisiana parish. No one knows where they are, and no one's going to come looking. Escape is the only thing on their minds.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **S.E Hinton owns The Outsiders, I'm just having some fun.

**A/N: **With thanks to Liz for the title.**  
**

**Summary: **When Tim Shepard and Dallas Winston are stopped by the cops, it's bad news. They've been sentenced to five years hard labour on a chain gang in a crooked Louisiana parish. No one knows where they are, and no one's going to come looking. Escape is the only thing on their minds.

* * *

**Chained**

**Chapter 1**

**November 14, 1965**

Tim Shepard pressed on the accelerator a little harder, and the Thunderbird peeled down a desolate stretch of road in central Louisiana. He didn't want to push the car any harder; the last thing they needed was to get pulled over by a cop for something stupid like a speeding ticket.

It had been a fruitful trip to Mississippi. His contact, a former Tulsa resident now in Biloxi, had scored him a nice semi-auto rifle and a handgun, and a meeting with someone named Mendoza. He was based out of Laredo, Texas and had a nice operation chopping stolen vehicles. He paid top dollar for cars in good condition and often took orders for the Mexican cartels.

It'd be a big coup if Mendoza liked him enough to start working with him. He could tell he'd impressed the man with how he ran his boys back in Tulsa. They had one of the busiest car parts operations in town, and Tim was itching to expand beyond Tulsa. It was one thing beefing over turf with Big Mikey Dean until Bill got him sent up a few months ago, and now that Mikey was out of the way, Tim had almost complete control over stolen car parts in Tulsa. He just needed to get organized and find a way to get those car parts to Laredo.

Tim knew that wouldn't be enough. Stolen auto parts weren't enough to run a gang on, and they wouldn't get him where he wanted to be. What he needed was to build a reputation, step by step. From stolen car parts, to full cars. From there, a solid relationship with Mendoza could get him contacts with any number of people.

The more money they could make, the more control they'd have. He could arm his boys with all the fire power they'd need to take over Tulsa. Fuck all those other shit gangs, he wanted a bigger prize. One day he'd control the whole city.

He glanced at the bald cypress trees in the distance. They loomed over the Louisiana bayou, like skeletal sentries. The place had an otherworldly feel to it, strange birds and plants all over the place. Nothing was familiar. He'd be happy to get back into Texas and up through Oklahoma.

Tim looked over at the passenger seat. Dallas appeared to be asleep, the stupid cowboy hat low on his head, blocking the sun that was beginning to dip toward the tree tops directly in front of them.

This part of Louisiana was deep in Cajun bayou territory. Somewhere down there was New Orleans, and Dallas wouldn't let him forget it.

"There's still time to turn off and get down there," came Dally's voice from under the hat, as if he'd heard Tim's thoughts.

"Yeah, still time for you to fuckin' shut up about it, too."

"Hey, you ain't in the mood to celebrate?" he asked. "From all them stories I hear, New Orleans is the place to do it. We can celebrate with some beers and girls. Seems to me like that meeting went alright."

He hadn't wanted to bring Dallas, but he didn't have a choice. Bill was in jail, Tim had no car since the fuzz impounded it - again - and he had no cash to get it out. He needed transportation to get to the meet in Biloxi. There was no way an ace car thief should show up without wheels.

Unfortunately, the only person that could score a set was Dallas, and he insisted on coming along.

"I ain't never seen Mississippi," he'd said, with practiced innocence.

He suspected Dallas just wanted to come along and fuck things up for him, but Dallas kept quiet and came off as well as he could've hoped. But since they'd started to head back home on the back roads, all he'd done was bitch about not getting to see New Orleans.

Tim sighed. Dallas was a decent man in a rumble, but he was terrible company.

"Next convenience store or gas station you see, pull over. I'm hungry," Dallas said.

He'd pull over when he damn well wanted to. Nevertheless, when the gas station appeared on the horizon, Tim pulled in. They wouldn't make it even close to Texas on what they had left in the tank, thanks to taking back roads. With the guns in the car, he wasn't looking to get pinched by the fuzz.

Tim got out and went to pump the gas while Dallas got out to stretch.

"I'm getting about five bucks worth," Tim said. "Pay 'em."

"Go fuck yourself," Dallas said.

Tim looked at him impatiently, then tossed him a bill.

Dallas took it and headed into the gas station.

He still didn't completely trust Dally and this car. It was Buck Merril's, and even though Tim knew you could walk over Merril easy as pie, he wondered about how legit getting this car was. Dally had insisted Buck didn't care, but Tim knew only a few things about Merril: he was cheap, he was a pussy, and he liked this car.

He couldn't picture Buck handing his keys over to Dallas without being forced, and that worried him. Merril had only scored the car a few weeks back in some hot shot deal he couldn't stop talking about, and it didn't feel right Buck would let a brand new Thunderbird out of his sight so easy. It also worried him that he hadn't thought to ask Buck himself. Granted, Dallas rode for him and knew him more, but still. He was a gang leader, he should know better.

He stuck the nozzle into the car and started to fill it. He needed to get back to Tulsa and off the road, stash the rifle and handgun he'd bought and lay low for awhile.

XXXX

Dallas walked inside the gas station and wanted to laugh. The place looked like it'd been mummified back in the thirties. The air was stale and warm. It was in the mid-seventies outside, but at least ten degrees hotter in the store, despite it being November. An old fan on top of the cash desk blew the dull air around the place, its tinny whir working Dallas's last nerve.

There was a skinny, pimply kid at the register reading an Archie comic and eating what looked like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Dallas looked around at the place, noting the month-old magazines, the slim pickings when it came to candy bars, and the whir of the fan. An air conditioning unit sat useless in a back window. This place was as dead as a door nail.

So was Tulsa. The only reason he tagged along with Tim was Shepard had said Louisiana. Apparently ol' Shepard had a warrant on him in Arkansas, for God only knew what, and he was planning on driving down through Texas and Louisiana to get to Biloxi for his meet.

Louisiana was New Orleans and New Orleans was cheap booze, cheap girls and a fucking good time, no matter the time of year.

Only Shepard was a damn kill joy and wasn't taking any detours.

Dallas pulled a Pepsi out of the icebox at the back of the service station, then looked through the aisles at the other stuff. He was going to die of boredom on the drive back with Shepard, there was no doubt about that. More than twelve hours to go, and he wasn't going to survive it.

He popped the top off the Pepsi, the bottle cap dancing onto the floor.

"Oh, you gotta pay before you can drink it," the pimply kid said.

Dallas looked at him, then took a nice long drink from the bottle.

"Yeah?" He belched. "What're you gonna do about it?"

The kid stood up a little straighter and set the comic book down, like he was actually considering Dallas's question. This kid was more square than any he'd seen back in Tulsa. Probably sniffed too many gas fumes all day.

Dallas felt the weight of the pistol at his back. He hadn't been aiming to buy guns on this trip, and he still didn't know why he'd plunked the money down for the gun Tim knew about, and for the other he didn't, but they were cheap and the gun felt good at his back. The one at his ankle was bugging him, but it wasn't nothing a good holster wouldn't solve.

Shepard was talking like these connections he was making were some big deal, but he was crazy. Those guys in Biloxi were pretending they were something just as much as Shepard was. The only worthwhile thing Shepard had done was get in with the Mexican guy out of Texas. He'd probably turn out to be a waste too. Shepard talked a big game, but all he did was steal hubcaps and pretend he was hot shit. Nevertheless, if Shepard was picking up two guns, so was Dallas. He didn't want to be outgunned if the asshole decided to turn on him one day.

Dally felt the gun press into his lower back as he stared at the kid. Dally took another drink of the Pepsi. The kid was looking wide-eyed at him, and he'd probably wet his pants if Dally tried anything.

He'd never knocked over a gas station before. A few of the River Kings had once upon a time, but the gas station attendant had shot at them. Dallas wasn't eager for a bullet to come his way. The kid didn't look like much, but there was probably a gun stashed somewhere. With his luck, the kid would be an expert marksman.

"You really need to pay for that," the kid said, nervously chewing his lower lip. Acne was blooming on both his cheeks, reddening even more as he waited for Dallas to reply.

Dallas stepped up to the register and picked out Tim's bill from his pocket.

"The gas too," Dally said, nodding outside.

If it wasn't for the fact there were guns in the car if the cops were to show up, he would've shown the kid exactly how much he was willing to pay for the shitty service he offered. Hell, he hadn't even come outside to pump the gasoline. Probably too scared of them.

Dallas looked down at the cooler near the cash register and saw the beer. It would be nice to get some full strength, cold beer. Oklahoma's liquor laws meant room temperature full strength beer, and Oklahoma's cold three point two didn't cut it.

Dallas leaned over and pulled out two bottles, feeling generous with Tim's money. Shepard had just finished fuelling the car and was putting the nozzle back on the pump.

"I'll take these, too," he said. He looked over at the magazine rack and his fingers waltzed to the back row, picking out a girlie magazine.

"And this."

"You got ID? For the beer?"

Dallas rolled his eyes, but he pulled out the fake ID he had that gave his age as twenty-one anyway. He didn't think he looked seventeen, and no one had refused the ID yet.

The kid nodded, looking at it intently.

"You gonna stare at it all day or what?" Dallas asked.

The kid handed it back wordlessly.

Dallas slid the bill over the counter to cover everything. The kid's beady eyes watched him.

"You better start lookin' somewhere else or I'm gonna think you're sweet on me," Dallas said. "There nothing better to do out here, huh? Jesus Christ. Just gimme the change."

He grabbed the chamge the kid put down on the counter, then grabbed his purchases.

Dallas walked out, hearing the bells above the door jingling. He headed to the car and put the beer on the seat before he got in.

"You bought beer with my money?"

Shepard was eyeing Dally's purchases.

"Yeah. You wanna go take 'em back, tell him we don't need them?" Dallas asked, a wolfish smile on his face. "It ain't three point two."

Tim grinned. "Guess not."

XXXX

Tim glanced over at Dallas again. He was whistling in the passenger seat, taking a look at the gun he bought and looking for all the world like he was having a great time. He had an open beer between his legs, and the centerfold was open on the dash, Miss October lounging in a pool and not much else.

"What're you so happy about?"

Dallas looked over at Tim. "I gotta have a reason?"

"Yeah."

Dallas laughed, a bark that always set Tim on edge.

"You sure the cops aren't gonna run these plates and find a warrant out on you?" Tim asked. Dally would be laughing over Tim getting hauled in for his mistake. In fact, he'd probably set it up to happen.

"I'm not the one who can't set foot in Arkansas, fucker."

"You're just pissed because you don't got any warrants out on you because no one figured out you were the one that stole all the hubs at Jay's a few weeks back."

Dallas laughed. "That was a good night. Got some good cash for all them too. O'Lafferty's just too stupid to figure it out. He was questioning some of the Tiber Street guys about it. You ever seen one of them lift a hub? Takes 'em twenty minutes. My grandma'd do it faster, and she's dead."

Tim glanced in the mirror. He had a prickly feeling between his shoulder blades since they entered the parish. Maybe it was the bayou or the fact there was no people around anywhere - not even other cars. Whatever it was, it was making him nervous.

He spotted a pull out up ahead and the nose of a car sticking out from a crop of bushes, still leafy despite the time of year. The cops. He slowed the car as he passed, making sure he was just under the speed limit.

A moment later, a piercing siren cut the air, and the cop car pulled out from the dirt road and started to follow them. Dallas sat up a bit straighter, and Tim glanced at the speedometer.

He hadn't been speeding. He'd been careful not to, and this was a pile of bullshit.

"I thought you said there wasn't gonna be a problem?" Tim asked. "What's he in a pinch about?"

Dallas shrugged. "There ain't no problem, I asked Buck for the car and all."

"Yeah ... and what did he say?" Tim asked, realizing Dallas hadn't exactly told him about asking Buck.

"Told me to go to hell," Dallas admitted. "But he keeps the keys in the register, and he really don't care if I take the car. I take it all the time to go to the stables."

"The car's been gone two days, you asshole!" Tim said. "That ain't the same as a trip to the stable! He probably thought somebody stole it. Christ, Dally, it's shit like this that shows me you'd never cut it running with my boys."

"I wouldn't run a foot race with your gang of fuck ups," Dallas said. "Buck's too chicken shit to call the cops anyhow."

The cop was speeding up as Tim did. Shit, he did not want to pull over, not with all the guns in the car. The minute they saw a bunch of unregistered guns, he was in a pile of shit. He wasn't eager to get sent up for possession of a dangerous weapon. He'd just turned eighteen a few days earlier, and that meant a prison sentence. Hell, if they were in Texas he wouldn't worry, even the mosquitoes carried guns, but he didn't know much about Louisiana gun laws, only that it was going to look pretty suspicious when they found them in the trunk.

He wasn't in the mood for a run, but it looked like that's exactly what was going to happen.

Dallas looked back at the cop and raised an eyebrow at Tim, as if daring him to run.

Tim sighed, then punched the pedal down, and the Thunderbird took off like a shot. He was surprised to see the cop car stay with him, and a moment later, another one entered the chase from another dirt road. He was going to have to lose them somehow.

He changed gears, trying to jimmy the car into giving him just a little more. The Thunderbird responded by shooting up the road toward the steel bridge in the distance. He saw the cops backing off as they approached the bridge, but Tim didn't back off the gas. Hopefully they were going to stop chasing him if he was crossing a county line or something.

He shot over the bridge and around a bend, then slammed on the brakes so hard Dallas's beer bottle flew out of his hand and broke on the dashboard, soaking the car with beer.

"What the fuck?!"

Tim yanked the wheel to the left to avoid the road block - cop cars were parked sideways along the road, and he barely missed the nose of one as he fishtailed across the dusty oncoming lane and clunked down into a ditch at the side of the road.

All he could hear was the hiss of the engine.

He was deciding whether or not to run when the cops drew down on them.

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**A/N:** I've always wanted to do a Tim/Dally version of The Defiant Ones lol. Any comments or suggestions are welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **S.E Hinton owns The Outsiders.

* * *

******Chained**

**Chapter 2**

"Hands in the air!"

The car was resting tilted to the driver's side, and the only sounds were the breeze and the spinning of one of the front wheels.

Tim looked up the small ditch. The gravely voice belonged to a stout man with a sheriff's star pinned above his chest. His double chin would have looked comical on anyone else, but to Tim it just made him look angry and stubborn.

He didn't trust the man for a second.

Not that he was in the habit of trusting the fuzz, period, but something about this man made Tim want to wipe the smile off his fat face and turn the muzzle of the man's gun around the other way.

"Now open the car door, from the outside," the sheriff instructed.

Tim reached a hand out the window and pulled on the door latch of Buck's car. It got stuck on the berm and Tim had to shove it open enough to crawl out.

"I'm gonna fucking gut you when we get outta this," Tim muttered to Dallas. "You and this fucking car. I hope they sell it for scrap and Merril's gotta walk everywhere."

Dallas unlatched his own door. "If you hadn't made like Steve McQueen, they might've just pulled us over for a ticket, genius."

Somehow, Tim doubted that. These guys looked pissed, and it wasn't because they were doing seventy in a fifty-five zone.

"Outta the car now, come on, move it along!" the sheriff barked.

A bulldog. That's what he reminded Tim of. A bulldog just a little too used to eating scraps from the table, one that was a little more pudge than muscle.

Tim stepped out, sliding on the bank of the ditch and rolling his left ankle a little. He looked around coolly. There was nowhere to run – the tree line was too far, and these guys looked like they were itching to get a shot off.

"You ever come to me and say Buck's lent you his car, I'm gonna pound you into next week," Tim said.

"Fuck you, I ain't the one driving the Indy 500 through Louisiana!" Dallas said.

"You got shit for brains anyway!" Tim shot back.

"Quiet down!" the sheriff roared. "I want y'all to throw out all your weapons, the kid at the gas station said the tow-headed one had a gun, you toss that out nice and easy on the grass there."

A gun? Kid at the gas station? Jesus fucking Christ.

"You knocked over the fucking gas station?!" Tim yelled. "Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to go in and pay for the gas, not hold somebody up! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I didn't knock over shit!" Dallas said, his eyes blazing. "I paid that little weasel for everything."

Tim looked over at him, stone-faced. Trust that asshole to try and take him down too.

"I don't fucking believe you," Tim muttered. "You're worse than Curly, you know that?"

"Curly can't find his pecker in the dark."

"Least he's got one!"

"Simmer down!" the sheriff said again. "I don't want to hear another word out of either of you. Tow-headed one, you move on up here, let the deputy cuff you. You back there, hands in the air, high."

Dally tossed the gun onto the grass, then stared down the cop for a minute.

Tim, with hands raised, watched Dally walk toward the side of the road. The deputy approached and put Dally down on the ground, cuffing him. Tim groaned when he saw the deputy toss out a second gun that Dally hadn't thrown down when they'd asked.

"A smart-aleck, huh?" the sheriff said, looking down at the pistol. Tim willed him to pick it up and bury a bullet in Dally's head. "We don't take too kindly to smart-aleck's here."

"Looks like you take real kindly to bacon and second helpings," Dallas said.

Dally was rewarded with a kick to the ribs, and Tim felt a moment's satisfaction. It would've been better if he were kicking Dallas.

"You, get on over here with your friend."

"He ain't my friend," Tim said. In fact, the minute these local yokels locked them in a cell together, Dallas was going to become Tim's personal punching bag for the foreseeable future.

"I don't care if y'all hate each others guts or not, get your ass over here and down on the ground or I'll put a few holes in you."

Tim sauntered over, taking his time getting over toward the cop. The sheriff rewarded him by a kick to the back of the knee, and Tim fell over onto the pavement.

"Somebody call Rucker's to get this car over to impound. These highway hoods aren't going very far for a long time."

"Seems I didn't do anything, officer," Tim said from his position on the asphalt. The deputy had cuffed him, the metal braces cutting into his wrists. Tim watched the deputy haul Dallas to his feet and a second later Tim was pulled up himself. He noted he was at least three inches taller than the sheriff, a fact which the sheriff seemed completely aware of.

"Helpin' a thief escape, one that used a weapon in a daring daylight robbery – " Dallas snorted behind Tim's shoulder, and Tim was inclined to agree that 'daring' was the last thing Dally's boneheaded move was. "He threatened to kill the kid too, so you got uttering threats on that list. You oughta keep better friends."

"He was hitchhiking, I don't even know him."

"Fuck you, Shepard," Dallas snarled. "I didn't rob the damn gas station. You see any money here?"

"You two are a real comedy act, oughta go on the road together," the sheriff said. "Get these little pukes out of here and back to lock up. They can see the judge in the morning."

A few of the other officers snickered at that, and Tim was immediately wary again. Something set him on edge about this stretch of highway. He should've gone through Arkansas, warrant or not.

He was crammed in the back of a police cruiser with Dallas, and watched as the tow truck showed up to get Buck's car out of the ditch. His only happy thought was of Merril's face when he heard about this.

XXXX

The drive into the town didn't take long. They turned up a dusty road and ended up in the small town within ten minutes. Trust Dally to rob a gas station that close to the fuzz.

The sheriff and deputy marched them into a ramshackle office that looked like it hadn't been updated since the 1930s, then toward cells in the back, down a damp hallway just off all the offices.

Tim kept his mouth shut, wondering why they hadn't printed either one of them, or took mugshots. First thing Tulsa PD did was print you, even before they sent you into a cell. The sheriff had taken both of their wallets, and was probably finding out about the warrant he had right about now.

The fuzz did take their jackets, shoes and belts. The cement floor was cold through his worn socks.

"I can't fucking believe you," Tim said. He sat down on a lower bunk, the springs poking through the thin mattress.

"I didn't rob the place, I ain't stupid," Dallas said, picking at a nail. "The kid looked like a little wuss, I might've given him a hard time, but I didn't rob the little shit."

"They found the guns in the car, a car that's probably going to come back as stolen, since I have my doubts Buck let you borrow it like you said. You fuck up worse than Curly."

"I didn't fuck anything up. I didn't rob that station."

Ordinarily Dally would've bragged about something like that. Tim wasn't sure whether to take him seriously or not. He could be putting on a show because he was nervous about getting caught in another state.

"They'll probably find that warrant of yours in Arkansas and ship you up there," Dally said. "I ain't got one on me in Tulsa, so I'll be headed home in the morning. You have fun in Arkansas."

"Fuck you."

Tim looked out into the office area – it was pretty quiet, just the sheriff talking with some of his deputies. He looked at Dallas a moment - Dally wasn't even legal age yet.

"Hey!" Tim hollered. "When do we get to see a judge?"

"I told you in the morning," the sheriff said.

It was probably past dinner now. He didn't want to languish in this cell next to Dally clear through until the next day.

"Why can't we see the judge now?" Tim asked. "Get us outta your hair faster."

"Because I said you ain't," the sheriff said, sauntering over and crossing his ham hock arms in front of him. "You might not be used to how things run around here, but in Strikersville, prisoners don't get to make a decision about when they go to court. Things might be a little different in … where'd you say you were from?"

Tim said nothing, and the sheriff wandered over to his desk and grabbed something from a teletype machine.

"Timothy Lynn Shepard, Tulsa, Oklahoma." The sheriff looked at Tim. "Well, maybe Oklahoma lets you call the shots, but I can assure you things are different here."

"Lynn?" he heard Dallas ask. "Oh, that is fucking priceless. Your middle name is Lynn?"

"Shut up, did it look like he was talking to you?" Tim asked Dallas, feeling his face get hot.

Dallas was too busy laughing to respond.

"And we also got Dallas Gene Winston. Rap sheet just about as long, and a juvenile, to boot. You boys are in for some trouble."

Tim said nothing, not liking the man's attitude at all.

"You boys are looking at a long stint in Strikersville," he said. "I don't envy you but a bit."

"I want a lawyer," Tim said. "He's underage anyway. He ain't goin' nowhere but a boys' home."

"Fuck you," came Dallas's reply from under the cowboy hat he'd placed over his face. He was lying on the lower bunk.

"Shut up," Tim said.

"You'll get what you get when you get it," the sheriff said, appraising Tim coolly. "Like I said … this ain't Oklahoma."

Tim was getting an uneasy feeling that it wasn't exactly normal Louisiana either.

XXXX

Sheriff Wilson MacGregor sat back in the hard wooden chair behind his desk and looked at the rap sheet that had come in from Oklahoma over the wire.

The two yahoos in his cell certainly had a lot of trouble up their sleeves – theft, vandalism, fighting, public intoxication, resisting arrest … from the looks of it they were hoods and outlaws, destined to end up in a penitentiary at some point during their lives.

His nephew had called him to say a man with a gun had been in the store. It wasn't so unusual – a lot of Texans came through with guns, but these were younger guys, and that's just what Striker was looking for.

He took off his hat and laid it on the desk, wiping down his brow. He didn't like the heat, and despite the time of year, it was miserable hot out. With the heat came the mosquitos off the bayou. He didn't like waiting after hours for Striker either, but Clayton Striker wasn't someone he wanted to beg off on meeting with.

Striker's great-great something or other had founded the town, and Striker wasn't one to let anyone forget that. He was warden at Strikersville prison, and as far as the town knew, their golden boy, their perfect citizen. He donated to Ladies Aid, the church, the charitable foundation and the hospital over in Baton Rouge. He personally paid for the Town Picnic each year, and there wasn't a person in town who didn't thank the Lord for Clayton Striker.

Well, maybe just one.

Clayton Striker was the biggest thorn in his side, and he had only himself to blame for it. He'd been indiscreet as hell the year he ran for sheriff, and looked to win until his involvement with Lureen Bell got around town. He assured his wife Marnie it was just gossip started by the opposition, but it wasn't doing his reputation any good around town.

Then one night he wandered out of the Sleep-Rite motel, miles outside of Baton Rouge, and ran smack into Clayton Striker.

He was leaning against his car, a cigar between his teeth, like he'd been waiting for him. All these years later, Wilson was now certain he had been.

"Looks like you could use a ride."

Wilson had accepted, not thinking until later how Clayton knew. Thinking about it too much made his head hurt.

Striker had been slick as oil, and offered to back his campaign. That had sobered him right up.

"Why'd you wanna do that?" he'd asked dumbly.

"Because I think we could work well together."

And that had been the start of a miserable relationship.

Not one week after winning that election in a landslide, Clayton Striker had come down to the sheriff's station and asked for his help.

He'd gone to Strikersville prison to find the body laying there right outside the gates.

"Damn shame," Clayton had said, looking at the man on the ground, shot in the back. "Tried to escape."

And there it was. The sting, the catch, the little prickle on the back of his neck. He always thought Striker threw his weight around because he wanted something from him. He didn't back him because he liked him, he backed him because he needed a patsy.

He found out two months later about the drug operation behind the prison walls. There were stories coming back from the very few who were released.

It wasn't until Striker offered to cut him in that MacGregor decided turning a blind eye wouldn't hurt anyone. But Striker's deals were never fair, and MacGregor was looking for more money to line his wallet. With him taking all the risk, it was only fair. It was time to get rid of Clayton Striker.

All that was left was figuring out a way to do it. Arresting him meant the town would cry foul, even if they found everything out at the prison. Then the questions would come.

No, Striker had to go permanently.

He heard the two Oklahoma kids arguing back in the cells. These were two jackasses he was eager to get rid of. He didn't trust either one of them.

The jangling of the phone startled him, and he shifted his feet off the desk and picked up the line. Striker. Cancelling.

He sighed, picked his coat up off the hook and looked over at one of his deputies, Roundtree, who'd come to relieve him for the night. Striker was a headache, these kids were a headache. The whole damn world needed an aspirin.

"Leave the lights on in the cells," he said to Roundtree. "We got some real smart mouths back there. Let 'em holler if they're going to. I'll be in tomorrow morning to deal with 'em."

XXXX

The lights were kept on in the cell all night.

It made it hard to sleep, and Tim was pretty sure this sheriff was doing it on purpose. It also made it even harder to put up with Dallas, who couldn't stop complaining about every little thing.

The bed was lumpy, the springs were poking his back, the lights were too bright, the cell was damp. Tim finally told him to shut the fuck up since it was his fault they were in this situation in the first place.

"You really didn't rob that station?" Tim asked awhile later.

"I swear it. I drank some Pepsi before I paid for it, that was enough for the kid to shit bricks. I bought the beers, the magazine and paid for the gas," Dally said. "Anyhow, it's your shit driving is what got us in here."

It was five in the morning according to the clock on the wall. It was hours later before a deputy showed up with some bread and jam and cartons of milk.

"Why not bread and water, the irony too much for you?" Tim asked, watching as he opened the barred doors. The deputy couldn't have been much older than him, with a wispy, wannabe mustache and not enough lines in his face to say he'd lived any years.

"When do we get to see the judge?"

The deputy shrugged, then looked over to the bullpen. "You don't want to anyway."

He shut the door up and walked back down the hall.

"What the hell was that supposed to mean?" Dallas asked, snatching up the bigger slice of bread.

"I dunno, but I don't like it," Tim said, staring down the hall. Things didn't add up here.

A few hours later the sheriff was in the office, and the only way Tim could tell was from his booming voice and the creak of the wooden swivel chair he sat in.

"Hey!" he hollered.

The sheriff took his time coming down the hall. The deputy, Roundtree, Tim thought his name was, followed behind, hovering at the door.

"When do we get to see the judge?" Tim asked.

"You're real eager to get in front of a judge. Why is that, boy?"

Tim gritted his teeth. "Just want to get bail set."

The sheriff clucked at him. "I dunno that the judge is gonna let bail be set low enough y'all can afford it. Besides that, y'all are definitely a flight risk being from out of state."

"Why would bail be set high?" he asked. "All I did was drive a hitchhiker in a car."

"Aiding and abetting is what that was," the sheriff said. He nodded toward Dallas. "That one's up on even bigger charges."

"That one ain't even legal yet," Tim said. "And from what he's saying he didn't do nothing. What kind of place you run here? Maybe you oughta take us down to the judge and let him decide."

The sheriff looked up at Tim. "You're looking at him."

Tim tried not to let the surprise show, but the sheriff began to laugh anyway.

"Ain't that a conflict of interest?" Tim asked. He flicked his gaze toward Roundtree, who had slunk back into the bullpen, his desk near the hallway. He could tell the man was still listening and Tim wondered what the hick deputy's game was.

"Elected and elected, and if the town thinks it's okay, so do I," the sheriff said. "Let's make quick work of this. The two of y'all ain't gonna want a jury trial, every citizen in the town's heard how you pulled a gun and threatened to kill my nephew Tommy MacGregor, it's a wonder a mob isn't down here trying to torch the two of you. So that leaves a bench trial in front of the judge."

Tim was thinking he might want to take his chances with the angry mob.

"We got evidence from Tommy MacGregor identifying the tow-headed one here as the perpetrator, and we got evidence from a sheriff's deputy who spotted the car driven by you, with the perpetrator as a passenger, tearing out of the area moments later. You tried to flee the sheriff's vehicles, and were arrested, whereupon the sheriff's department found four unregistered handguns in your possession. Sound about right?"

Tim was quiet.

"Based on these findings, I find you both guilty as charged. Dallas Winston is guilty of possession of an unlicensed firearm, uttering threats and robbery. Timothy Shepard is guilty of fleeing the scene of a crime and aiding and abetting a fugitive, as well as fleeing the police. Now, based on the criminal code of Strikersville and the surrounding parish, I hereby sentence you both to five years hard labour to be served at Strikersville prison, effective immediately. We'll be transferring you in a few hours."

"This is bullshit!"

Dallas had rocketed off the bunk and was staring at the sheriff. Dally gripped the metal bars and pulled at them, rattling the door. The sheriff loosened his night stick.

The sheriff looked at them both. "No ... boys like you, always in trouble, stealing, hurting people, doing wrong – you need some ironing out. A few years in Strikersville, you boys'll come out of there knowing right from wrong."

"Oklahoma's gonna know something's up, with you running us like you did," Tim said, gesturing down to the offices.

"Teletype request for a routine traffic stop. Nothing amiss, I sent you on your way." The sheriff was looking at Tim, a hard, cool look in his eye. He was enjoying this.

"You're gonna be in a heap of trouble when they find out you tossed a kid in there," Dallas said.

"Some kid," the sheriff snorted. "I ran you. Ain't nobody gonna miss you. In fact, if I had to guess right, I'd say your parents would probably be pretty grateful to have you off their hands and out of sight for a time."

Dallas hocked one up and spat at the sheriff, and it was all Tim could do not to groan aloud.

The sheriff turned a deep crimson, yanked a handkerchief out of his hand and wiped his cheek. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and looked at Dallas with unabashed hatred.

"It's going to be a different story when the warden gets here," the sheriff said. "Mark my words, boy, you're in for a world of hurt."

The sheriff turned to leave.

"Hey!" Dally hollered. The sheriff sauntered back down the hall toward the bullpen. "Hey, get your fat ass back here! I didn't do nothing!"

Dally rattled the cell bars, then pounded his hands against them. After a few minutes of it, he turned to Tim.

"Why the hell ain't you doing anything?"

"You really think you'll convince him to come open the door?" Tim asked, looking at Dallas with a raised eyebrow.

"This is bullshit. He just gave us five years – I didn't do shit and I ain't even eighteen yet! We didn't get a phone call – " He grabbed the bars and yanked again, then yelled down the hall. "Hey! I didn't even get a phone call."

"Quit it, Dal," Tim said.

"Fuck you!"

Dally kept beating at the doors until he tired himself out.

"There's something going on here," Tim said.

"Oh, you think?"

Tim looked at Dallas squarely. "Ain't no use in all that. Like it or not, that sheriff is sending us to prison. I know it ain't because of these charges."

Dallas was pacing. "Hell, I didn't rob the place. He can't put me away for not doing shit. There's no proof I did anything."

"There's no proof you didn't either," Tim said. "He'd need to call Child Welfare on you. More like you'd end up in the reformatory and a boys' home. He didn't make no call. He didn't fingerprint us, he didn't photograph us. He may have run our driver's licenses, but Tulsa PD ain't gonna think nothing of that if no charges come. This guy doesn't give a damn about us or the law. I bet there ain't a charge filed on us legal-like. He's got something going on, and I'm aiming to find out what."

"You realize you're gonna be finding this out in a fucking prison, right?" Dally asked. "He's not keeping us in the Tulsa jail or some reformatory. He's shipping us off to a real prison."

Tim sat down on the lower bunk. This was pretty much a nightmare. He'd had dreams about cops throwing him in prison for nothing before – hell, half the cops in Tulsa trumped up the charges on him whenever they hauled him in. He'd begun to expect it. But this was something different – something that felt sinister – but so far he felt like there was still some kind of way out that could avoid the prison altogether.

"We best keep a low profile until we figure out what's going on here. This guy might just be some hard ass cop who wants to rid the world of ne'er do wells, but I don't think so. Something smells rotten here, Dallas, and whatever it is got us five years in the clink. I don't want you adding to it."

Tim expected Dallas to argue back, but the blond was quiet for the first time ever.

"Something _is_ up with that guy," Dallas agreed. "I was expecting him to come in here and beat me the fuck down."

"I'd lift his keys, we'd lock him in and be outta here like an episode of the Lone Ranger?" Tim laughed in spite of himself. "You got an imagination, I'll give you that."

"It could've worked," Dallas shrugged.

"I don't like the feel of this," Tim said.

"We can write when we get to the prison, let people know what happened," Dallas suggested.

"And then what? Your old man gonna shell out money for a lawyer?" Tim looked over at Dallas. "Yeah, that's gonna happen just like Hank's gonna give a rat's ass I'm in here. My mom'll cry and go to church more than usual, but we don't got two nickels to rub together. Even if somebody does give a shit, no one's coming, Dally. Anyway, I doubt they'd let us send shit to anybody."

He watched Dally's gaze flick from side to side, knowing Winston knew it as much as he did. They were on their own.

"So first chance we get?" Dallas asked.

Tim nodded. "First chance."

* * *

**A/N:** Seems Dally and Tim are in some real trouble. Headed to prison with no way out ...


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Tim was half asleep in his bunk when he heard the voices.

He leaned over so he could get a better view into the bullpen and saw a man walk in. The sheriff, his feet up on his desk, practically killed himself trying to get to a standing position.

The man was tall – at least six-two – and wore cowboy boots, jeans, a belt buckle the size of Texas and a button down western shirt with a blazer over top. He was biting down on an unlit cigar, and removed his flat topped cowboy hat when he came inside, laying it on hat rack just inside the door.

"Heard you got some new blood for me," he said. "What's their racket?"

"Striker," the sheriff said. "Thought you'd be in last night, the prison said you'd cancelled."

"I was busy," he said. "Who are they?"

"Ne'er do wells from Tulsa, Oklahoma. Both had weapons on them. History of charges back home."

"Well off?"

The sheriff shook his head. "Not by the looks of their rap sheets or their clothes."

"Good," Striker said. "What did the old town judge give them?"

"Five years hard," he said. "Just like you asked."

"You got someone to bring 'em up to Strikersville?" he asked. "Transport's busy with the chain gang today."

"I can have one of my deputies take them if that does you fine," MacGregor said.

"Something I need to talk over with you," Striker said. "What's say we go over to Rosie's for lunch?"

MacGregor nodded. "I'll call up Roundtree on the radio, tell him to transport these two up to the prison. He knows where to go."

Striker nodded. He picked up his hat and left the station without another word.

MacGregor got on the radio to his deputy, Roundtree, arranged the transport then locked up the station.

Tim let out a breath. Something really bad was going down here.

XXXX

"Think he's gone?" Dallas asked a few minutes later.

"Yeah," Tim said. "I saw him go. No one here but us and the mice."

Tim swung his legs off the bed and put his stocking feet on the cold concrete.

"Did you hear any of what he said?"

Dallas nodded. "Prison warden asked him to give us five years or something."

Tim nodded, taking a soft pack of Kools off the floor. A deputy had thrown the pack in that morning with a pack of matches, apparently not realizing the damage Tim and Dally could do with it if needed. But there wasn't much that could catch fire in the cell, and not with them in it. But you never knew when you might need something.

"Sounds like they got some kind of racket going on," Tim agreed, lighting a smoke. The smell of the initial burn of the tobacco relaxed him. "I don't like the sound of it."

Dallas didn't reply.

"He mentioned a chain gang, Dallas."

Dally nodded. "I heard it."

The man's last name was Striker, if the sheriff was to be believed. The town and prison were both named Strikersville, and Tim didn't much like thinking the man in charge of the prison might be in charge of the whole damn town. Something smelled awful fishy here. A man with that much power couldn't be trusted.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes.

"We gonna try with that deputy?" Tim asked.

Dally shrugged. "Best chance we got. Only I don't know how the hell we're getting out of here. I dunno where they towed the car, and I'm not going back to Tulsa without it."

"Fuck the car," Tim said. "Merril should know better than to leave the keys anywhere near you."

Dally did present a decent point. Even if they got out of their cell, they had no car, no money and no one to call for help. Curly didn't have a licence, and Bill was in Granite. The other guys in the gang weren't the type to trust with something like this. Hell, if this got out, he was finished.

"We can call Darry," Dally said.

"Curtis?" Tim asked. "From what I've seen he ain't about to get in a car and come down here. Especially once he hears what they picked us up for, legal or not."

"If the cop didn't file any charges for real, then we aren't guilty of anything." Dallas did have a point. "We'll call Steve, then. He'd come. Him and Two-Bit."

"Mathews would probably think it was a big joke and come into town advertising we were getting away," Tim said, thinking about his past encounters with Mathews.

"You don't seem to be suggesting any names, so unless you got a better answer, I think my idea's looking pretty good."

Man, he hated it when Dallas Winston was right.

"We need a map," Tim mused. "We gotta figure out where to go. We need a map and a phone."

"Or to find Buck's car."

"That's the first place they'd look."

Tim laid down on the bed smoking and thinking. It'd be risky, but they had only the one chance with the deputy. If they could surprise him and bolt out of here, well, it'd just be another state to add to his list of places to never visit again.

XXXX

The deputy, Roundtree, showed up a half hour later, coming into the back and looking at both Dally and Tim. He was young, maybe not much older than they were. He was fresh faced, with his blond hair perfectly combed, his uniform pressed, the creases sharp and fine. He looked by the book, and Tim hated by the book.

Roundtree opened the door and tossed their boots in.

"We're moving you up to Strikersville."

Strikersville. Last strike and you're out.

Tim and Dally shared a glance. Tim wasn't sure who'd move first, but he was ready. The deputy had cuffs with him as he stepped into the cell. He eyed Tim and Dally.

"Don't," he said. "They'll just get a posse together same as they did for the last guys. They're dead now, and I don't want that on my head."

Maybe Tim had underestimated this kid. At any rate, it had to be done.

Tim rushed the cop first, and Dallas was right behind. They slammed into the bars, and the deputy lost his breath. He managed to grab his baton and give Tim a hit to the ribs, but Dallas was on him in a second when Tim stumbled back.

The deputy fought back, harder than either of them expected. He had leverage on the door, and used it to crack Dally in the head. Dallas stumbled back against the cinder block wall, and the deputy was out of the cell and locking it up before Tim knew what happened.

"I told you, don't," the deputy pleaded, his breathing hard. "I don't wanna call for Sheriff MacGregor. He's got a cattle prod, and he's not afraid to use it. You don't wanna go into Strikersville like that. Your best chance is go there, keep your head down and serve the time. They _do_ let people out. From what I've seen, you two could talk your way somewhere decent with Striker, I think. He's always looks at … kids like you, young guys, gang ties. He needs you, and you'd find a way out easier if you just went with it."

"What the _fuck_ is going on around here?" Tim asked.

The deputy got two sets of shackles from a supply closet down the hall and tossed them in.

"Shackle up your legs, both of you, then each others' wrists. If you don't, I'll have to call the sheriff and that won't go well for any of us. Please."

Tim marvelled at the pleading in the kid's voice.

"You're a fucking piece of work," Dallas snarled.

The deputy glanced toward the door. "Hurry. It's better if I take you than if he does. You start out on the wrong foot with Striker, and you could be spending a lot more time in that prison than you're due."

"We're not due shit. The whole damn town's crooked," Tim muttered.

"The town doesn't know any of this," Roundtree said. "And not everyone's crooked. There's just some of us who haven't figured a way out yet."

Tim looked down at the shackles on the floor, and every fibre of his being was telling him not to put them on. They had to run, to get out, to get the fuck out of Dodge and not look back.

"There's not a lot of time, come on!" Roundtree said.

Tim bent down and picked up the shackles.

"Fuck," Dallas said.

They shackled their own legs, and Tim got one hand shackled, then managed to get the other one done up partially. Dallas refused to help him do the last one up. The deputy opened the door when he saw they were mostly contained and came over to adjust to the shackles.

"What kind of game are those two playing?" Tim asked him.

Roundtree's dark eyes looked into his own. "It's no game."

XXXX

The deputy led them out of their cell and through the precinct floor. The place was just about abandoned.

Outside was more of the same, with the town looking like it was poised for tumbleweeds to blow through. It creeped Tim out, mostly because he got the feeling it wasn't natural.

Obviously the sheriff and the warden had something going on. It didn't really matter what. What mattered was their plan consisted of Tim and Dally stewing in prison for five years.

The enormity of the situation began to hit him when the deputy sat them both in the back of the car. Five years of prison was something he could do - hell he figured he'd be in for longer than that at some point in his life. But five years in prison with Dallas Winston? He didn't do anything to deserve that.

Knowing the awful luck he was having, they'd be sharing a cell. He'd wake up to that smirk every morning, have to see him in the chow line, in the yard, in the work program, whatever they had there. Every living second with Dallas Winston on his ass like a barnacle.

"Jesus Christ, this is some shit," Tim sighed.

XXXX

Paul Roundtree wasn't a saint. He got in his share of fights growing up; it was hard not to with a face his mother always called "as pretty as a girl." He'd smoked, drank his old man's whisky behind the barn and had made it with Darlene Duchamp after prom. He wasn't a saint, but he wasn't a devil either.

And he was right up against the fact he was likely working for one.

Crime in the town was extremely low, and everyone seemed happy with MacGregor as sheriff and judge. The Strikersville prison was a model of a well-run prison according to the newspaper, and everything seemed fine in town.

So when he'd taken the test and became a sheriff's deputy, he expected he'd learn more about the man he thought reminded him of a revivalist minister. Instead, he'd learned that Wilson MacGregor was as dirty as the day is long, and so far, there was nothing anyone could do about it.

He presented a nice package to the town, but the Paul saw otherwise. Some of the other deputies, like Hickom and Lee, thought MacGregor rose and set the sun. They were his cronies, ready and willing to take a few extra dollars to look the other way. MacGregor hadn't approached Paul with any kind of deal yet, but it was coming. He could sense it.

Maybe it was because it was evident to everyone that Hickom and Lee weren't exactly rocket scientists. They were no more leaders than a church mouse was. But Paul knew that despite his quiet exterior and baby face, people did look to him as one. They had when he was the star tight end on the football team in high school, and they had when he had gone on to college and played ball at LSU for a year until he blew out his knee. Everyone looked at him as if he had some kind of authority, and it was ironic as hell that he was beginning to hate it.

He could sense Sheriff MacGregor would come to him. There was something about the way the man watched him. He knew the sheriff was likely trying to decide if Paul Roundtree could be flipped. Sometimes, Paul himself wasn't sure.

The guys in the back of the car weren't saints either, not by far. They'd been in jail for far worse than he ever had, and there was the fact one of them may have robbed the gas station, and they did have guns in their cars. A few months ago it wouldn't have mattered if these guys had come into town and the sheriff had asked him to look the other way while he pocketed a gun or two. If money had been offered to keep quiet about something, Paul probably would've taken it. With Melinda pregnant, he was needing all the money he could get. It had looked like being under Sheriff MacGregor's thumb might be a distaste he could stand.

And then he'd come across Josie Landry.

Josie was barely seventeen if she was a day. Her family had a name in the town, her old man a drunk who ended up in jail more times than he could count. Last Paul had heard, Remy Landry had up and taken off for greener pastures, leaving his son Jean-Rene and daughter Josie behind.

He was just coming off a long shift manning the station alone while the rest of the deputies and the sheriff had been out with the warden and some guards from the prison, searching for three men who'd broke loose earlier in the day.

He was driving along a back road, alongside the bayou, when Josie Landry had stumbled out of the brush. He'd swerved to avoid hitting her.

She tried to run when he got out of his truck with his uniform on, and it wasn't until later he understood why.

She was bloody and beaten, and wouldn't say a word about who hurt her and what they'd done until he asked her if her brother had done it. She'd said no, then crossed her arms, looking at him defiantly.

"Y'all won't do a thing to one of your own," she said.

He'd looked at her, not understanding.

"Are you soft in the head, cher?" she asked. "They came to the cabin, looking for the men who escaped. They found _me_."

He had told her she could come back and make a statement, press charges.

"They come back, I'm shooting first," she said. "I'll blow their balls off I ever see 'em again, you got that, cher?"

She had tried to limp away, her ankle swollen. He begged her to go to a hospital, but she wouldn't budge. He finally convinced her to accept a ride back to her cabin, but she refused to ride in the cab, and sat in the bed of the truck. She didn't thank him when they got as close as he could take her, and he didn't expect her to.

Two months later her brother Jean-Rene had beat Hickom up in a bar fight and landed himself in Strikersville for six years. Paul wondered if Josie felt like Striker and the sheriff had won again. It was a wonder Josie Landry wasn't so despondent they'd find her hanging off a tree branch in the bayou.

But she was Cajun stock, a tough girl who walked barefoot through the bayou like it was nothing, had hunted since she was young. She wasn't the kind of girl that came to the local high school. He couldn't recall ever seeing her there. She may not have been educated, but she was smart.

Ever since that day, Paul had watched things a little more closely, and he didn't like what he saw. The thought of playing in MacGregor's court held little taste for him, and all he could think about was what he'd do to stop him. Only there was nothing – Paul was a small fish in a pond that was probably much bigger and deeper than he had knowledge of.

He glanced in the rear view mirror again. The two hoods back there reminded him of the Landry's – tough, defiant, street savvy and petulant. The blond one wasn't someone he'd like to tangle with – the kid went straight for his balls when they were fighting – and there was some kind of snap-at-any-moment feeling about him. There'd be riots and brawls and all kinds of things with that kid at a regular prison. He wondered how the kid would do in Strikersville, and had a feeling he'd try and con his way out with Striker. Knowing the man, if this kid had something he needed, that was a good way to go.

The other one was quiet, a thinker. He might have looked like he wasn't paying attention, but Paul didn't miss how he flicked his gaze here and there. The dark haired one worried him.

The two couldn't be more opposite, in looks and personality, but somehow, they were one and the same. There was some kind of crackling hope there.

"You know he's not doing right."

The dark one had spoken up.

"You two robbed a gas station and fled the scene, had unregistered weapons on you," Roundtree said, testing them.

"Didn't rob shit. The guns, I'll give you that. They were for protection. What's that usually get a juvenile and a first time offender?"

Paul almost cracked a smile. "First time?"

"Well, in these parts," the kid said. Shepard, he remembered his name was.

Paul looked ahead to the road for a second.

"Confiscate the weapons, ship him back to Tulsa with a fine, and rid yourself of him," Shepard said. "That's my guess. I know those weapons came back clean, all I did was forget to register them, officer."

The kid might be young, but he was smart.

"What do you say, Dally?" Shepard asked the other kid. "If they were gonna throw me in the clink - maybe a year? Probably served in county lock up, out in six months if I'm lucky. 'Course, it'd be easier to ship me back to Tulsa and serve it there too. Less drain on the lovely state of Louisiana."

"What's your point?" Paul asked.

"You know this is all bullshit. I can see plain as day you don't want to go along with it. I can also see there ain't no one else standing on your side of the line."

"Then you see I can't help you. I wish I could."

"I almost believe that."

"Keep your head down in there," Paul said. "Don't go getting noticed by Striker so quick. Trust me when I say he's always watching. I only got some idea what's going on in there, but I suspect a lot of the boys on the outside of the cells should be on the inside."

"Nothing unusual about that," the other kid – Dallas – said.

"You think I'm pissing away five years of my life in that prison, you got another thing coming," Shepard said.

He looked in the rear view mirror again. They were only a few miles from the prison now.

"They have a shoot to kill policy on escapees," Paul said. "So I heard. I'd just wait it out if I were you."

"But you ain't me," Shepard said. "You're sitting here doing the bidding of that fucking hog back at the sheriff station. You're running his errands, being his lapdog, which is just as bad as if you were railroading us yourself. Don't kid yourself, Roundtree. You're just as guilty as they are."

Shepard's gaze flicked over to the window, and it was clear he was done talking.

Paul drove the rest of the way uneasily.

XXXX

The deputy took them as far as the main processing office, then turned around and left without another word.

They were herded into a processing room, and Tim was quick to notice not a single fingerprint or photograph was taken. They were both handed orange jumpsuits. The guards made them strip down and change into their prison issue clothes.

They were each given a threadbare towel, face cloth, small bar of rancid smelling soap and a toothbrush. Their shoes were exchanged for ill fitting bland white sneakers.

They were marched through different secure areas before being taken into a long corridor. It smelled like wet concrete. The walls were unpainted cinderblock and Tim could hear the familiar sounds of prisoners whispering down the line. Of course, in Tulsa it was usually a chorus of hellos from people he knew. The calls this time were a little different.

He couldn't tell if Winston was scared – as far as he knew, Dallas had never set foot in an actual prison. He knew Dallas knew he hadn't either - he'd only turned eighteen a week ago after all. But he'd done time in a boys' reformatory before - and that wasn't no walk in the park.

The guards moved them down the corridors, and the men in the cells came forward to the bars, looking out and clucking at the fresh meat. He studied Dallas, walking ahead of him, and wondered what the prisoners made of him. He was odd looking, thin, wiry, and had that colourless hair and those shifty eyes. He didn't look like your typical hood, that was for sure. If you were a betting man, you might think he'd be easy to flip, make a first rate bitch, and Tim almost laughed to himself. Dallas would start a riot first.

It made Tim remember the first time he'd met Dallas, when he was fourteen. The kid had tried to mug him. After Tim started laughing, not expecting the elfin looking kid to have any game, Dally popped him one. They'd ended up in a fistfight in an alley, broken up only when they got too tired to continue. They'd shared a cigarette afterwards, and went their way like nothing had happened. Dally earned a scrap of respect from him then.

Somehow he figured the guys in here wouldn't be so accommodating to new blood.

The guards stopped at a small cell which already held two men. Tim was surprised to see the guard unlock the door.

"Welcome to your new home, boys."

Tim's heart sank as he realized they were sentencing him to five years with Dallas. Nope. Not going to happen. If they wanted to guarantee themselves a prison break, they just did.

The guard locked the doors shut behind them, and Tim felt the familiar rise of panic the moment the door clanged shut. He usually felt this way the first few days inside – like the walls were crawling all over him. It would be even worse in here, with two other bunk mates.

The room was barely big enough for two people, never mind four. A small steel sink and toilet sat against one wall and two bunks were pushed against the others. They had thin mattresses and minimal bedding.

One of their cell mates was lying on the lower bunk and hadn't taken much notice of him and Dallas.

The other man had stood up and was standing there, cracking his knuckles like he was waiting for a fight. Tim was just about in a mood enough to oblige him.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Dallas asked.

"Nothing," the guy said. He was probably in his late 20s, and was pretty well built. His hands weren't scabbed or bruises and that meant he hadn't fought in awhile. Tim sized him up quickly and decided Dallas might have a bit of trouble without him.

"My friend here thinks you're a pussy," Tim said. "I don't know about you, but I wouldn't take that kinda shit."

"Fuck you, Shepard."

Dallas wasn't very original with his retorts.

"You gonna learn I run this cell, I run this block, you got that?" the man said.

Dallas stepped up to the guy and looked like he was going to lean in to tell him something. Tim fell for that only once. Dallas hefted his fist into the guy's midsection, doubling him over.

The big guy flew at Dallas and they hit the bars. Dallas retaliated with a punch to the man's jaw, while Tim sidestepped out of the way.

The man on the lower bunk, probably in his late 40s, stood up. He had to be close to six foot five, and Tim backed up a step. Dallas was going to be in a world of hurt, and too bad for him.

The giant stood and stared at the two fighters for a moment, then waded in and grabbed both of them by the arms. He yanked them apart.

"You two stop acting like children and sit the fuck down unless you want the guards in here. Solitary ain't no joke in here, and I want y'all to keep your noses clean, you got that?"

Dallas looked cowed by the big man, and even the other fighter showed him deference.

"How long you been in?" Tim asked him.

"Fifteen of a twenty year sentence, but you can bet they ain't letting me out. I'm in here legit."

The man leaned against the bars and looked each way down the hall, probably for guards. He came and sat down on the lower bunk again and the metal groaned against his bulk.

"What the fuck is going on around here?"

"You haven't figured it all out yet?" the other fighter said.

Tim looked from one man to the other, then at Dallas, who was feeling his jaw.

"What's your names?" the big man asked.

"Tim Shepard. That's Dallas Winston."

"Henri Boudreaux," he said. His voice was a thick Louisiana patois.

"Victor," the other man said. "Molinez."

He didn't look Mexican. The two men had each claimed the bottom of the bunks. Dallas had already climbed up to the top of the one above Victor. It reminded Tim of two cats that fought and then curled up by the fire together. The image almost made him bust out laughing. People probably thought the same about the two of them.

"You get thrown in by MacGregor?" Victor asked.

Tim nodded.

"Striker has him in his pocket. In case you haven't figured it out, Clayton Striker runs this town."

"Haven't found a way out yet?" Tim asked.

"Haven't tried," Victor said.

Tim frowned. "If it's such a hell hole, why not?"

"I've seen twenty-six men shot trying to escape since Striker took over as warden. I am sure many more than that died," Henri said. "Men have escaped, I've seen them come back in body bags. Buried in the Wastelands."

"The Wastelands?" Dallas asked.

Henri nodded. "A dirt field here. Too hard to grow anything but weeds. They bury the bodies there. There are far too many. The warden has only a few rules - follow them, and he leaves you alone. Do not follow them, and you'll end up covered in dust."

"Sounds like a real nice guy."

"It is no joke, boy," Henri said. "The guards here are allowed to do what they wish. Victor, show them."

Victor stood and pulled his shirt up, revealing a web of scars across his midsection.

"Burned with hot water," he said.

"So he tortures folks that try to escape? What's he got going on?"

"One of the largest drug operations I have ever seen," Henri said.

"Some prisons punch out licence plates. We package grass, pills, all kinds of things," Victor said. "I should say, the lucky ones do. Henri is one."

Henri nodded. "He has those he ... trusts ... of the prisoners working inside his drug labs here. The majority of the prisoners are on the chain gangs."

"Chain gang? Are you shitting me? Like in those old time movies?" Dallas asked. "I heard it, but I didn't believe it."

"It is no joke," Henri said. "Groups are taken to work in different locations. There is a quarry, and an old train bridge being dismantled outside the prison. You will probably end up there eventually. He will have you work in the prison yard first, chipping rock at the quarry here. If you are good workers, then the chain gang."

"How chained are we talking?" Tim asked.

Henri shook his head. "You cannot escape. Prisoners are shackled at the leg, and you're in wrist shackles for the transport there and back. Guards have high powered weapons and they do shoot to kill. I saw a man run like a jack rabbit end up with thirty-six slugs in his back. I know. I buried him."

"Does anyone get out?"

Henri nodded thoughtfully. "Some, we're told, work on the outside for Striker in his drug operation. The ones who are here legitimately, like myself, have no hope of that. Those he brought here secretly, the ones he think he can use, he wants their connections on the outside."

Tim didn't think any of his connections, new or old, would have the pull Striker was looking for. He also wasn't aiming to get them tangled up with this shit hole. No, he was going to get the hell out and not have someone like Striker running the show.

"I can see in your face I can't convince you to stop any attempt to escape. I say go, try, be successful. If you get away, only run. Don't look back."

Tim and Dallas looked at each other. Well, the only thing to do was get the lay of the land and see what they were up against. Come hell or high water, they were getting out.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for all the great comments. Let's have an informal poll - Tim and Dally are going to be a big problem in this prison, yes or no? =)


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Dallas couldn't sleep.

It was probably all the noise, and the dampness of the cell. Maybe the spring poking into his lower back, and maybe the way his jaw was smarting from the punch Victor got him with. If he was honest, it was because he had no fucking clue how they were going to get out.

Shepard was trying to play it cool like he was some kind of Svengali genius who'd bust them out of prison like Steve McQueen in _The Dirty Dozen_. Shepard was no Steve McQueen.

He was right about one thing though; they had to figure out how it all worked before they tried. Dallas had often fantasized about breaking out of jail, and it'd be kind of fun to actually do it. He wasn't so keen on having to avoid bullets aimed his way, but maybe they'd all aim for the back of Shepard's ugly head.

He changed positions on the mattress and tried to drown out that part of his brain that said if he hadn't fucked with the kid they wouldn't be here. That skinny punk had lied his ass off, and at the very least had told his uncle where to find them.

It wasn't his fault the kid was a wuss and called the cops, and it wasn't his fault the cops turned out to be on the take and tied up with the second coming of Satan.

He closed his eyes, trying to envision an escape. Something more daring than bolting from a chain gang. No, he'd go out like McQueen, right under everybody's noses.

XXXX

The wake up call in the prison was the guards coming down the hall, smashing their batons against the metal bars.

"Everybody up!"

The prisoners were let out of the cell blocks in sections, and everyone went to line up for chow.

Tim was a little confused when they went into the big dining area of the prison. Everyone was sitting down, all talking in low voices. There was a decided air of tension in the room. Tim lined up and got his tray – something that might be oatmeal – and a glass of water.

He followed Henri and Victor to a table and sat down.

Dallas took the seat across from him and shoved his spoon into the goop in the bowl, letting it slop back into the bowl. "Oatmeal? Are you crazy? This ain't even fit for pigs."

Tim looked at Henri and Victor, ignoring Dallas. "Gimme the lay of the land."

Henri looked like he wanted to do anything but.

"Guards at all the doors, automatic weapons," Henri finally said. "That's all you need to know. Everyone keeps their heads down because they know what happens if they don't."

"What's that?" Dallas asked. "Sent to the principal's office?"

"It's not a joke, boy," Henri said. "You see them over there? They call themselves the Rock. Out of California. They keep their mouths shut. Those Mexicans there? La Eme, Mexican mafia. Mouths shut too. Because they know that to beef with each other and call attention to themselves is to get themselves into trouble with Striker."

"So everyone stays on the man's good side so they'll get to be part of his crew," Tim said. The oatmeal tasted like warm cardboard. "How'd you manage it?"

Henri looked over at him. "Chemistry degree from Louisiana Tech."

"You serious?"

He nodded. "Striker has me working on synthesizing diacetylmorphine."

"Morphine?" Tim asked. "Like the pain killer?"

"No. Diacetylmorphine is heroin," Henri said.

"That's some heavy duty stuff," Dallas said.

"He looks for people like me, with skills he can use." Henri took a spoonful of his oatmeal. "You boys don't have anything he'll need but muscle for working the chain gangs."

"We got contacts."

"He doesn't need them," Henri said. "The man has more than enough of his own. He has a farm in Mexico growing the opium poppies and sells half to a drug lord there for grass. He brings that up here for packaging. Aside from that, he has a nice operation with stolen weapons. They come here, we strip them of serial numbers. He has a nice little package to interest buyers. The man is big time. You two are small fish."

Tim ate the rest of his meal thoughtfully. Well, no question about where his weapons ended up. They were probably right in the prison with him.

"You're still going to try, aren't you?" Henri asked.

Tim shrugged. "Don't know."

But he did know. Just as much as Dallas seemed to know, the two of them weren't long for this prison.

XXXX

Dally and Tim were kept in their cells while everyone else went off to work in various areas of the prison. Dallas was itching to get out and do something, even if it was chipping rock for hours. Anything so he didn't have to stare at Shepard's face all day.

Shepard had gotten quiet after breakfast and hadn't said a word since. The fucker better be working on an escape plan, because the food in this joint sucked a big one.

Prison wasn't something he was eager to see, but so far all the horror stories hadn't held true. Granted, this place seemed like it was a little on the crazy side, since everyone seemed to behave like model prisoners. He wasn't exactly itching to find out what happened when you broke the precious rules, but it wasn't like he was going to be a model prisoner himself. That was asking for a miracle.

"I think our best chance is to get on a work crew outside of here," Tim said.

Dallas looked over at him. Henri had scored them one pack of Kools - a luxury - and they had split the smokes between them. Dallas was already half way through his half of the pack.

"I hear you," Dallas said. "What about arming ourselves when we do run?"

"Still thinking on it," Tim admitted. "We're going to need a distraction of some kind. A big one. All of it depends on where they put us to work."

"If they put us together."

Shepard shrugged. "If not, you're on your own."

"Cocksucker."

"You got us into this."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Dallas said, getting angry. He wasn't taking the blame for this. "Those cops would've arrested us even if we had only bought gas, even if you'd gone in to pay for it, and even if we didn't have shit in that car. Hell, I bet they would've run us off the road and claimed we ran from them if you hadn't actually done it."

"Yeah."

Dallas raised an eyebrow at Tim's agreement. That was as close to an apology for blaming Dallas that he'd get, he supposed.

The day passed slowly. Without a window and just a bare bulb in the cell, Dallas was certain he wouldn't be doing five years here. He wasn't even sure about five days.

"Whatever we do, it's gotta be soon," Dallas said. "Otherwise I'll die of starvation."

"You'll die because I beat you to death."

They realized after noon they weren't going to be called for any kind of lunch break, and it turned out later they discovered there were only two meals served in the joint.

Dallas lay in the bunk, his second night in prison, and wondered if anyone had noticed he was gone. He hadn't told any of the gang he was taking off with Shepard. They'd probably assume he got picked up by the cops and was in the Tulsa jail. His old man wouldn't even realize he was missing.

Maybe Shepard's gang would notice he wasn't around. Dallas smiled to himself. Maybe Shepard's boys would assume he skipped town and their whole outfit would fall apart. The thought soothed him and he fell asleep soon after.

XXXX

The next day after breakfast, Dallas and Tim found a guard at the cell door.

"The two of you come with me."

Dallas was about to offer up a retort, but Tim shook his head slightly. He could tell the bastard didn't want to take his advice, but he wasn't about to let Dallas blow their chance to scope out the prison or get put on a work team.

They were marched down the halls and joined the tail end of a group waiting at a door that led outside. Tim watched as the guards shackled their legs together.

The door was opened and the prisoners walked outside, in an odd shuffle so they wouldn't trip or fall. Dallas kept pushing his back.

"Quit it, will you?"

"No talking!" a guard roared. "You're here to work, you got that?"

Tim wanted to haul off and hit the smug son of a bitch, but he looked forward and didn't say a word. He wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

It was only in the low sixties, but he could tell the day would warm up. He could see the dissipating mist of fog in the distance, probably over the swamp water in the bayou.

They were marched across the prison yard, and Tim wondered where the hell they were going. They left a secure area of the prison and were led out to what Tim assumed were the Wastelands.

The land really was a waste. It was a big patch of yellow, dry land, some scrub brush and rocks, and an outcropping at the far end he assumed they were being led to. The ground was cracked and dry in some places, and it looked like the middle of a desert.

The odd thing was that it was surrounded by green vegetation on each side. Tim could even see by the tall chain link fence topped with barbed wire that green grass grew not far beyond it. It was like a bit of the Arizona desert had landed in a tiny patch of Louisiana.

The guards lined them all up, machine guns at the ready.

This was obviously no place for any kind of a prison break. The fences were too tall to scale, and the guards would get a half dozen shots off before they even got to the barbed wire at the top.

"Ya'll know the drill," the guard said. "No talking, no breaks until we say, and no trouble. You give us trouble, you get the hole. Got it?"

Another guard cocked his rifle. "Any one of you makes a motion with these pick axes that ain't aimed at the rock and we shoot you down like dogs, no questions asked. You got that?"

Everyone nodded and Tim nodded along with them. Soon they were each handed a pick axe. The group began to move toward the rocky outcropping, and men began chipping away. Tim wondered how much of this rock formation had been in the yard - maybe it had covered all this dead area or something. If so, that was a hell of a lot of time chipping rock in this lousy joint.

He swung the axe against the rock, watching as barely a dent was made. He snorted with derisive laughter. It was all a goose chase of sorts - they probably would chip away all day for no more than a cup of rock chips.

Most of the prisoners were working with the arms of the jumpsuit tied around their waists. Even though the day was cool, the work was hard. They had no shelter out where they were, and from what Tim saw, no available water. His wish to get on a work crew wasn't looking so hot now.

They worked well for an hour, until Dallas started getting restless.

"Move the fuck over, would you?"

"Watch it with that thing, Dal."

The pick axe had come awfully close to his head.

Dallas shoved him.

"Hey! You there! Back to work!" A guard had levelled his rifle at them and was watching them with barely concealed contempt. Tim turned back to the rocks and swung at them a few times until the guard wandered down the line.

"Stop acting like a damn idiot and listen," Tim said to Dallas.

"You're no more planning a break than you are baking cupcakes," Dallas whispered. "You're just gonna serve out these five years like a good little boy?"

Before Tim could respond, Dallas was felled from a blow from behind and crumpled down onto the rock in front of them. Tim lost his balance since his leg was shackled to Dallas's.

"I said no talking," the guard said. "Get up and get back to work."

"Or what?" Dallas asked. "You'll call my mommy?"

The guard swung the butt end of his rifle at Dallas's head, knocking him off balance. Blood sprayed onto the rocks.

"You got anymore smart words, tough guy?"

"Yeah," Dallas said. "But I don't think you'd understand them."

The guard kicked Dallas in the midsection a couple times, then whistled to another guard.

"This one wants a little solitary," he said. "Get up!"

The guard unlocked the shackle at Dallas's ankle and they half-dragged him across the hard pan and back toward the prison.

Stupid, fucking Winston.

"He's gonna get himself killed." The man chained on the other side of Tim spoke for the first time. He had a Louisiana patois and was looking back at the guards and Dallas with a withering expression.

"Better him than any of us," Tim murmured.

Tim glanced over at the man, then picked his axe back up again. His back ached and he was sweating like a pig. He suspected the chain gang crews outside of the prison didn't have it this hard.

"How do you get on the gangs for work outside the prison? Seniority?" he whispered to the guy next to him.

"No," the man whispered back. "Just luck of the draw. Could be any one of three locations on any given day."

Tim nodded and swung the pick axe again, the metal clanging against the rock. Luck of the draw meant their plan would have to be spontaneous to work - a distraction that just happened to happen. He wasn't sure they could create one, and that was going to be a big problem.

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Dallas get hauled in the prison door, his feet dragging behind him.

Of course, he also had a bigger problem, and with his luck, they'd be chained on the same work crew together.

XXXX

Dallas wasn't surprised when he was thrown into solitary, and he wasn't surprised when the guards who tossed him in there came in to hammer home their point about not talking when they were working.

He was pretty sure he had at least one broken rib, and he was going to have a mighty big shiner the next day.

His foray into solitary hadn't been without its advantages though. The food was shit, the cell was wet and there was no mattress on the spring bed, but there was privacy and quiet.

And most of all, no Shepard.

XXXX

Three days after Dallas's episode on the chain gang, Tim was surprised to see him in the cafeteria for what shouldn't be allowed to be called breakfast.

His eye was black and blue, and Tim could tell he was hurting the way he favoured his right side.

"I see they made you even uglier than usual," he said.

"Yeah, they were tryin' to get me looking like you."

Tim ate in silence for a minute or two.

"What was the wise idea? You call attention to yourself and they're going to be watching like hawks."

Dallas shrugged.

"I ain't kidding, Dally." Tim laid his spoon down. "You start doing shit like that all the time and you'll see that we won't be able to move five feet in this place without a guard on us. I'm of a mind to bust outta here on my own and leave you here cracking jokes on a chain gang."

Dallas sat back in his chair, looked at Tim for a moment, then leaned forward.

"Solitary is down in the basement, not too far off the laundry area. There's guards on all the in and out points, and it's key and lock like the rest of this place. They use a skeleton key for each section, so all the cells on our block use the same key. Laundry trucks come once a day at noon. Guards are at the door, two of 'em, automatic weapons. Prisoners load the laundry bags. They offloaded some stuff too, and I ain't lyin' when I say one of 'em looked like a dead body." Dallas looked around before continuing. "Even if you could get the guard on the door going down to the basement, you still got two to worry about in the laundry area. If you get tossed in solitary, they don't open the doors for nothing. The cells down there have a pass through at the floor for food trays, but they never once cracked the locks open when I was in there. You'd have to convince them to open the door, and to do that, they'd call for back up like they did when one guy tried to hang himself across the hall from me."

Tim looked at Dallas with a raised eyebrow. "You got thrown in on purpose."

"You ain't the only one that can do recon and shit."

Sometimes Dallas managed to surprise him, even after all these years.

"While you were playing super spy, I got put on one of the outside work crews," Tim said. "They pull guys randomly for it. There's no saying when we'd end up on the same crew or not. Seems to be luck of the draw."

"You escape without me, and I'm gonna beat your fucking head in when we get home."

"I went out to the rock quarry the first day. That one's a bust. There's nothing around but hard pan and some scrub brush in the distance. Even if an atomic bomb were to go off, those jack off guards would see us hightailing it out of there easy."

"What about the other one?" Dallas asked.

"That one has some promise. They're taking down a steel bridge to replace it. They got construction crews on hand, but they're using dynamite to do some of the work. The explosions from the dynamite would be good cover. There's an embankment that leads down a creek area. Word is it leads straight to the bayou. You could get lost in there for years."

"Better than this shithole."

"My thinking exactly," Tim agreed. He had no problem spending some time in a swamp if it meant getting the hell out of this prison.

"So we get on the work crew out there. Then what?"

"They chain everyone two by two. That's gonna be a problem," he said.

Dallas snorted. "There's gotta be tools around or something."

"Yeah, when the moment comes, you spend precious time searching for something."

"What's gonna serve as a distraction? They're probably all armed to the teeth out there," Dallas said.

Tim shrugged. "I haven't figured that part out yet. What we gotta do is get on that crew and pay more attention so we can figure something out."

Henri sat down at their table a moment later. He looked at Dally's face and shook his head.

"You must have a death wish."

Dallas grinned. "No more than usual."

"Striker asked me about you two."

Tim's ears perked up at this. This could be bad. "What'd he ask?"

"If I knew much about you. He does this with all the new fish, asks the cellmates."

"You've had other cellmates?" Dallas asked. "What happened to the others?"

Henri looked at Dallas. "One made a shiv out of his toothbrush handle and slit his throat in the night. Two others tried to escape out the laundry area and were shot and killed."

"Is this bad news that he wants to talk to us?"

"I told him you may have connections," Henri said. "It might be worth while to see if he'll put you on his crew."

"What kind of crew?"

Henri shrugged. "He has men working in the labs, men processing the marijuana, packaging and so forth. He also lets some out to act as runners. Ones he trusts."

"He lets them out?" Dallas asks. "What's to say they won't take off like jackrabbits?"

"He has reach," Henri said. "I've seen runners return in body bags."

Tim saw Dallas's gaze flick up to meet his. It was possible that Dallas really had seen a body being unloaded, but then, sometimes Dallas was full of shit.

He didn't think Henri was though.

"He'll have the guards come for you some time," Henri said. "Don't commit. Don't be memorable. Just tell him what he wants to hear."

A better idea would be keeping their damn mouths shut at all, just like around a cop or a judge.

They were put on the work crew on the prison grounds again that day, and Tim had a lot of time to think about how his conversation with Striker would go.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for all the reviews so far (I'm a little behind in my replies!). So ... a meeting with Striker, good or bad?


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns the Outsiders, and I'm borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Here's a chapter for everyone that has nothing to do today. Hope everyone is having a Merry Christmas.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Dallas was the first to be hauled into Striker's office. He liked to think it was because he'd made a name for himself, but Striker didn't seem to know who he was.

"You're the one MacGregor picked up robbing the gas station?"

"So he says," Dallas said. He leaned back in the chair in Striker's office. It was in an administrative section of the prison and had soft furniture – leather couches and a big mahogany desk. They'd only been on the inside for just over a week, but already he'd forgotten what soft things felt like.

"There may be opportunity around here for you."

"Yeah? For what?"

Striker lit a cigar, then paused, opened a desk drawer and pulled out a package of cigarettes. He tossed them to Dallas. Dally lit one up warily, fully expecting some guard to come out of nowhere and pull the thing out of his mouth. He stuffed the pack inside his jumpsuit so Striker wouldn't ask for them back.

"I'm not sure where," Striker said. "Takes awhile to see where some people would be most useful."

Like ten feet under maybe, Dallas thought.

"Your rap sheet is … impressive … for someone so young."

"Let's not fuck around, you put me in here against the law, what is it you want?" Dallas asked, knowing he was playing with fire.

Striker's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You'd do best to remember who's in charge here. I don't much like that kind of language."

Dallas tried not to snort with laughter.

"We put you in here because you need the kind of discipline this place can dish out. Given some time … I think I may be able to use you."

"Doing what?"

Striker shrugged. "I'm sure you've heard there's lots of opportunities around here."

Dallas nodded. The asshole was sure playing things close to the vest.

"Think about it, Dallas," he said. "I may be able to use you on the outside."

"What, chipping rocks?"

"No, something a little more enterprising and up your alley."

Dallas sat up a little straighter. If Striker was offering him a way out already, then maybe he didn't need to go along with Shepard's stupid schemes. Shepard would spend a year coming up with a decent plan, then fuck it up when it was time to do it.

It might be a better gamble to work with Striker. If he could get on the outside, it might not be so bad at all. He could run the drugs, do whatever Striker thought he'd be good at and build his way up. He reasoned Striker must have guys on the outside overseeing everyone. He'd be pretty good at that. Then, when he was ready, he'd strike out on his own, make a bunch of dough and then take off out of Tulsa for good.

He felt a moment's compunction, thinking about him on the outside while Shepard toiled away behind bars, but shoved it out of his head. If Shepard didn't get offered the same deal, he could find a way to get Striker to use him. He couldn't leave him in this hell hole, bastard son of a bitch or not. In their neighbourhood, you just didn't do that kind of thing.

Dallas looked across the desk at Striker.

"I'll think about it," he said. "You make a lot of good points."

Striker smiled, then the door opened and a guard was there to take him back to his cell.

XXXX

Kids were so stupid.

It was one reason he liked it when MacGregor arrested them. He had a few underage kids in here, and they were all so eager to get out they'd do just about anything. It was never very hard to turn them.

This one was extra stupid if he didn't see how Striker could see through him. The glint in the kid's eye when he mentioned the outside, he could practically see the wheels in the kid's mind turning.

They all turned to the same place – get out, make money and branch off. There wasn't a single one out there that didn't think that. The last one that thought that lasted three weeks on the outside before he realized he couldn't escape the prison. Striker had enough of a reach to get these guys back into his prison, but it wasn't a good use of his money or his men. It was just easier to cut his losses, get rid of the kid entirely when he fucked up and tried to run. There was always someone to replace them.

These cons were so dumb none of them ever thought it was a bad deal for them. Being out was such a big attraction none of them thought past that.

Especially the kids.

He sat back and looked at the rap sheet for the other one – Tim Shepard. A year older, legal, but still a kid.

Striker relaxed in his office chair, smoking his cigar down. Sometimes this job was too easy.

XXXX

Tim was pulled off the prison yard gang to go talk to Striker about an hour after Dallas got back.

Tim was drenched in sweat and smelled pretty ripe, but that was Striker's own fault. He was led down the hall with his hands cuffed together, doing that shuffling walk in the leg shackles that reminded you every step where you were.

He wasn't surprised Striker's office wasn't damp and was well appointed. A jackass like him was probably holding meetings with new prisoners in there on purpose so they could see who ruled the roost.

Tim's shoulder blades itched. He'd like nothing more than to watch the warden's face as someone shoved him into a tiny cell and the doors clanked shut behind him.

Striker came into the office, a lit cigar in his mouth and a big Stetson on his head. He looked like a used car salesman.

"Timothy Shepard."

Striker sat down at his desk and picked up a file, which probably held Tim's rap sheet.

"Public intoxication, public brawling, disturbing the piece, theft, robbery, aggravated assault, truancy … my my."

Tim rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck and looked out the window of the office. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. In the distance he could see the tree line. Beyond it, he was told the gully led straight to the bayou.

"You like being on the work crews?" Striker asked.

Tim dragged his gaze away from the window.

He shrugged. "Nothing else to do, it seems."

"Now, that's not exactly true, and I suspect you know that," Striker said. "We've got all kinds of opportunities here. Lots of different areas of work. What would you be interested in?"

"I ain't." He looked Striker in the eye. "Just gonna serve my time, that's all."

"Your time really depends on a lot of things, Timothy." Striker said. "How you do in the prison, for example. We don't like troublemakers, like your cellmate, Dallas Winston. He was hauled off to solitary once already."

"I don't control his fat mouth."

Striker chuckled. "I don't suppose you do. But sometimes, when one person gets out of hand, it takes a punishment to the lot of them to control that mouth. I'm sure you understand."

Striker's speech was interrupted by a ringing phone. He answered it.

"I can't come down. What are you talking about? When?" Striker sighed. "Hold on. I'll be right down."

He hung the phone up and looked over at Tim.

"I'll be just a minute."

He shoved Tim's file in a drawer in his desk, then called the guard in. The guard shackled Tim's legs to the chair he was sitting in, with the chain running through the arm rests, so if Tim wanted to run, he'd do it with a chair on his ass.

"Just a precaution," Striker said.

Tim nodded blandly.

Striker and the guard left the office and Tim heard their footsteps fade. He stood up, holding the chair up off the floor and moved it along with him toward the window. A horn sounded, and a truck was backing up, right below the window. Tim could just see the back end.

It was a laundry truck, and he surmised the laundry area was probably a few floors underneath him. He watched the back open and a man in a laundry uniform got out, clutching a towel to his head. It was drenched in blood.

He could hear Striker yelling – a big contrast from the Mr. Nice and Calm he presented in the office. Another man held a gun on the back of the truck, and another man got out, dressed in an orange jumpsuit. A prisoner.

Before Tim could see who it was so he could find that guy later and ask him how the fuck he got out, a shot rang out.

The laundry worker fell to the ground, the prisoner in the jumpsuit looking shocked beside him. Striker stepped forward. He gestured to some men around him, and some guards came and picked up the dead man, hauling him out of Tim's view.

Prisoners started to unload the back of the truck, and Tim saw a bunch of bloody towels and laundry bags. He spotted Victor with the crew, and his cell mate looked up as he was handing towels and bedding to another prisoner.

Victor shook his head. Bad scene down there.

He watched Victor walk out of view. A moment later a spray of water started to wash the blood off the pavement.

Tim shuffled around the room with the chair, trying not to make any noise. It was bad news if Striker was shooting people, and worse if he was shooting unarmed laundry workers. Maybe it was punishment for letting the prisoner escape.

Tim made it to Striker's desk, hoping to God there wasn't some kind of surveillance system in his office. He made sure to use a tissue before touching anything, in case the man was paranoid enough to dust for prints.

He found a folder in the lower desk drawer with MacGregor's name on it and took it out. Tim smiled as he recognized the bank statements at the top. He tucked a few inside his jumpsuit, then flipped to another folder and found the print out of both his and Dally's rap sheets. He grinned as he picked those out and shoved them inside his jumpsuit.

A sheet of paper fell from between the file folders.

A map.

He unfolded the map quietly. It was a map of the prison and grounds, but not done to enough detail to be helpful. It showed the land surrounding them, including the two work sites. Tim noted where the bayou was and where to lead to.

There was one area – out near the Wastelands he thought, which appeared to be part of the prison, but he knew from experience the fence surrounding the prison didn't go that far. It was marked with tiny x's, all in different colours, but there was no key as to what it was marking. Tim tucked the map inside his jumpsuit, hoping it could help him figure out where to go after they escaped, then he replaced the files and eased the drawer shut.

He scooted back to where the chair had been, trying to line up the dents in the carpet with the chair legs. Keys jangled outside the room, and he adjusted his jumpsuit, smoothing it down to hide the map and papers. He had just enough time to take a deep breath and let it out.

"As I was saying before we were interrupted," Striker said. "There are lots of places to work in here. I may need someone like you in other areas."

Tim kept quiet.

"You don't seem too interested," Striker said, studying Tim.

Tim shrugged. "Just waiting for the catch, is all. So far there's been one at every turn."

Striker smiled, but not in a friendly way. "There's a catch with everything in life, isn't there, Timothy? From getting a good deal on a car to finding a dollar on the street, everything comes with a catch. Sometimes the catch is worth it though, wouldn't you think? I mean, wouldn't it be worth it to be out of here a little early?

"Depends on the cost." Tim looked at him. "Like you said."

"You're going to be a hard nut to crack," Striker said, his façade dropping for a moment.

"I don't particularly care for what you're selling," Tim said.

"You will. In time," Striker said. "It's not likely you'll get your pick of jobs or anything, not now anyway. Maybe hard labour really should mean hard labour for a man like you, Timothy. Everyone has to learn where they belong in the food chain. I gave you a chance to start out and work your way up."

Yeah, he thought, work my way up to your fall guy.

"If you're content working on a road crew in all kinds of weather, well then, I guess I ought to respect that."

Striker opened his office door and hollered for the guard. He unchained Tim from the chair.

"I have a feeling you'll come to change your mind on this, Timothy," Striker said. "I may or may not be willing to entertain your plea when that happens. But you can always try."

Tim nodded noncommittally.

"I thought you were the smart one," Striker said, as if he was unable to stop talking and had the need to make Tim react. Tim had learned silence rattled people more than anything. "I guess your friend Dallas has a bit more in the brains department than you give him credit for. I think he'll be a welcome addition to my crew."

Tim tried not to let the surprise show in his face, thinking that Striker was probably trying to lie his way to a reaction. As he walked back with the guard toward the entrance to the prison yard and back to the chain gang, Tim wasn't so sure. Dallas Winston was a piece of work, and maybe it was time to cut his losses if the idiot had decided to work with Striker.

XXXX

They didn't get a chance to talk on the work crew, and Tim was glad Dallas seemed to be keeping his mouth shut while he worked. They had dinner in the cafeteria, a silent affair since everyone seemed dead tired.

When they were returned to their cell, Tim saw Victor was already there, staring up at the bottom of Dallas's bunk.

"Who was the guy they shot?"

Victor glanced over at him.

"Which guy?" Dallas asked. "Who'd you see get shot?"

"When I was up in the boss man's office. A laundry truck came by, a worker all bashed up, a guy in a jumpsuit in the back. Striker shot the laundry worker."

"He wasn't a laundry worker, he was the prisoner," Victor said. "A guy named Michael Mandolo. Been here about three months. He managed to get out, had a scuffle with the driver and held him with a shiv, made them switch clothes. The driver got the jump on him and came back with the truck."

Tim sighed. It made a lot more sense than Striker killing random workers. But now he knew Striker didn't give a shit about shooting prisoners.

"So this guy don't play around," Dallas said.

"Maybe that'll give you pause to think about joining up with his little crew," Tim said.

Dallas shrugged. "Doesn't hurt to keep your options open."

Tim laid on his bunk. He should've asked some questions of Striker to try figure out how others had escaped, but the man would've spotted his reasons a mile away. He was irritated with Dallas. Hooking up with Striker might mess with his plans to escape. He didn't much like the idea of leaving Dallas to deal with Striker on his own. The man was cagey and had a hair trigger temper, and Dally would set him off in no time.

"I mean it, Dally," Tim said. "You hook up with that crew, you're on your own."

"Why not get on it yourself, we get out of here and do our own thing."

"No such thing," Henri said. "You'd be under his thumb."

"I ain't under no one's thumb," Dally said.

"That guy is the king of shifty, underhanded deals. No … he knows I ain't interested," Tim said. "I'll be working a road crew the rest of my time in here."

"You mean forever?" Dallas asked. "Because I don't think he has any intention of letting us out."

Henri nodded. "It seems you are finally understanding. There is no way out."

Tim wasn't so sure about that.

XXXX

On Sunday the prisoners did no work - Tim figured folks on the outside would be suspicious if they did. On Monday they were both put on the chain gang and loaded onto a bus. Tim never knew where the bus was heading that morning, and no one saw fit to tell him. It would rumble out of the prison gates, and only when it reached a dusty paved road did he know. Left was to the quarry, right was to the bridge.

From his time on the chain gang while Dallas was in solitary, he was learning that the quarry was the worst option for escape. There was literally no way out. The rock quarry had one way in and one way out, high bluffs of rock, guards at every turn.

Tim could see no means of escape at the quarry, but there also wasn't much chance of a distraction that could help them do so.

The bridge site was a question mark. It was a lot more open, and there were construction crew members working alongside the prisoners. There were more guards at the site, but it also provided more chances for escape.

It was Dally's first time out of the prison on a chain gang, and Tim hoped he was paying attention.

The bus rumbled to the main road and turned right, and Tim breathed a sigh of relief. He was hoping to return to the bridge site as much as possible. The more he knew the site and understood how it worked, the easier an escape plan would form.

He was working on something to break the chains, but so far nothing had presented itself.

As they left the bus at the bridge site, the guards chained prisoners two by two with ankle shackles, then assigned them to an area.

Their wrists were un-cuffed and they were handed tools, something Tim thought might come in handy. It was usually hammers or pick axes.

He had been chained to an untalkative guy a few years older than him when Dallas was in the hole, but they chained Tim to Dallas this time. He was relieved, only so he could update Dallas about this place.

The guards handed them each a mallet and directed them over to some railroad ties. Tim looked up at the completed track and realized the prisoners were building a train bridge. Guards ordered some of the men to bring the metal tracks over, lying them on top of the wood ties, where others, like him, would drive stakes to anchor them to the ties. It was a slow procedure, and they were silent until they got the hang of it.

One benefit to the bridge site was the prisoners were more spread out, and so were the guards. It allowed the prisoners to talk more, and that was just what Tim needed.

"I'm working on something," he said to Dallas.

"What's that?"

"A way to get out of the shackles," Tim said. "Gotta be able to move when things go down."

"What things? Look around you, Shepard. Ain't nowhere to go."

Tim did look around. There was a creek bed to follow, the tree line, and beyond it, the bayou. There were plenty of places to go.

"You need to start paying attention to shit, this place is our best hope."

"I ain't so sure about that," Dallas said.

Tim paused what he was doing, but Dallas was already moving toward the next tie, and Tim was forced to move with him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Tim asked.

"I'm just saying, we got other options."

"You heard what Henri and Victor said, working for Striker ain't no way to get out of here."

"I think it could be."

"Then why aren't they doing it?"

"Maybe Striker never asked them," Dallas said. "Maybe he only asks ones he knows he can use."

"Are you thick in the skull? Right, forgot who I was talking to," Tim said. "Dallas, he chooses people he knows he can off and get rid of with no mess. Come on. You ain't got no family and mine has no money. You don't see anyone down here looking for us. Striker knows we're on our own. He wants people like that."

He saw Dallas roll his eyes.

"It's the truth," Tim said. He leaned in closer to Dallas. "Look, I found some shit in his office, and none of it looks good. I think he lets some guys out as runners for him, but as soon as they get any wise ideas about leaving or he thinks they know too much, he gets rid of them. Permanently."

"It's not the fucking mob. You think he's Al Capone, you're crazy."

"He ain't no Boy Scout either." Tim swung at the railroad tie. "Anyway, Capone was a shit leader who barely last three years. You know where he ended up? Alcatraz, full of syphilis."

"He died in Florida, dipshit."

Tim looked over at Dallas and cracked a smile. Sometimes the idiot surprised him.

They worked silently as one of the guards walked by, his rifle at the ready. Tim watched him pass as he hammered a railway tie.

"We gotta make a run for it," Tim said.

"What, now?"

"No, not now," Tim said. "Like I said, working on something to handle these shackles."

He looked around at where the guards were, then bent over and shoved a few long nails into his jumpsuit. They only did a cursory pat down getting them on the bus, and Tim was fairly confident they wouldn't find them. He could bring them with him and use the nail to pop the locks on the shackles.

Dallas had watched him, then went back to swinging the axe.

"What about all them guards?" Dallas asked.

"We need a distraction. That's the part I'm thinking on."

He was hoping Dally would catch a bit of the fever about taking off. Tim figured the more he talked about going like it was a sure thing, the more likely Dallas was to go along with it.

"Asking for a distracting is like waiting for rain, Shepard," Dally said. "You got no idea when it's gonna come."

"So we have to be ready," Tim said.

He swung the mallet a few times and anchored in more ties as the guard approached again.

"What kind of ready?" Dally asked after the guard passed.

"Well, we gotta figure out the best way to go."

"Down that creek, I figure," Dally said. "Follow it down and it oughta send us somewhere with more cover. Plus, they'll have a hard time getting a shot off with all the plants and shit growing everywhere."

Tim tried not to smile. Dallas was more into taking off than he said.

"You two are crazy if you think you're gonna get away," someone said.

Tim looked over – it was the guy he'd been chained to days before when he'd worked here.

"Better than sitting on our asses," Tim said.

"I'm not kidding, they'll shoot you down like dogs."

Tim glanced over at the guy. He was probably in his mid to late twenties.

"Tim Shepard," he offered. He nodded at Dally. "Dallas Winston."

"Johnny Ray," he said. "How long you in for?"

"Five years."

"Shut up before the guard hears you," Johnny Ray's shackle partner said. "You're always talking too much."

"Mine was seven. Been here awhile already. Seen too many killed to make a breakaway out of here."

Tim was getting a bit tired of hearing this from everyone. "Yeah, well, I'd rather die trying than not at all."

"It's a fool's errand. There's nothing but land around here, and they know every inch of it," Johnny Ray said.

"Let them try, we haven't had a good round up in awhile," the partner said.

"Shut up, Ernie."

"There's the bayou," Tim said.

"You'll die in there if the guards don't shoot you down. Lots of stuff there to trap you. Gators, quick sand, hunting traps. Not to mention the warden would have a dog team out there pretty fast."

"Sounds like you've seen it before."

His face darkened. "Once or twice. Last time was the worst. Things get bad out in the bayou, friend. No one wants that kind of trouble, least of all me."

Tim didn't know what it mattered to the guy if they escaped or not, but all the people stuck inside this place were fucking weird. He didn't know if it was the monotonous days of work, living with threats or the reality they'd probably never get out, but they were all weird.

They had a break for "lunch" which consisted of water and a fifteen minute break, taken in shifts.

"Stop fucking moving," Tim said. "I want more water."

"I need to take a leak."

"Hold it, for Christ's sake!"

Tim felt for the nail in his pocket. He was hoping he'd have enough willpower to hold onto it rather than stab Dally in the neck with it. No matter which way he moved, Dallas seemed to go the opposite way. They were constantly under the other's foot, tripping, shoving and jostling each other. The guards had told them time and again to quit it, but they just weren't coordinated together.

Tim watched the other shackled prisoners move and none of them were having as much trouble and him and Dallas.

Dally asked a guard for permission to take a leak and the guard escorted them both to the side of the tracks. Tim turned around while Dallas took a piss, tempted to pull his feet out from under him.

The rest of the day went slowly, and by the time they were herded back on the bus, everyone was exhausted and no one talked.

They all ate in the cafeteria, then returned to their cells. Tim was asleep before his head hit the thin pillow.

* * *

**A/N:** Slowly but surely Tim is building an escape plan. Think it'll be successful?


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

**A/N:** Happy New Year, everyone! Thanks for all the reviews in 2012.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

The next morning at breakfast, Tim spotted Johnny Ray across the prison cafeteria. He sat with a group from a cell block that was at the end of their row. He seemed to have a lot of knowledge about the bayou, and Tim could really use some information.

He was concerned about a few things – Johnny Ray had mentioned alligators, and a key part of Tim's planning was travelling through the water so they couldn't bring dogs in to find them. But alligators in the water would make that a ridiculous and dangerous idea. He needed to know how likely the chance was they'd run into one.

If Johnny Ray was local he might know of a place they could hide out until the heat blew over and they could find their way out.

The only hiccup would be Dallas. He'd probably want to get back to Tulsa five minutes after they left, and convincing him to wait things out in a hiding spot was not going to be easy.

After breakfast they were put on the bus again and taken back to the bridge site. Before they got off the bus, one of the guards stood up.

"Y'all will be coming back here from now on. The construction crew wants people who know what the fuck they're doing. They're telling us they need consistency, and that's what you bunch of shits are gonna be. Any of you have a problem working out here, you shut the fuck up and do it anyway."

Tim was just about sweating with relief. Knowing he would be coming back here every day – even if it was with Dallas – was a relief. Now the planning could begin in earnest.

Tim manoeuvred himself so he was standing closer to Johnny Ray, and he got shackled in with him that day.

"You're going to ask me, I can tell," he sighed, when they were assigned to move railroad ties. Johnny Ray moved with ease, even with the shackles on, and it was a relief not to be tripping over someone else every five seconds.

"I need to know about this place." Tim looked around. The guards were pacing up and down the line. "You're local?"

Johnny Ray nodded. "All my life. What's left of it, probably local to the damn prison."

"Bayou's down that way, right?" Tim nodded toward the tree line in the distance.

He nodded. "Past the trees is the road, then more trees into the bayou. The crick takes you right down there, too. But I'd stay away. Nothing but danger if you don't know what you're doing, and you look like you're more comfortable in the streets instead of the forests and bayous."

"You ain't wrong about that," Tim said. He lifted his section of the railroad tie and they moved together to set it down in the row that was laid out. There was probably two hundred feet left to build before it reached the bridge which had yet to be constructed. The old one was still half up and half down.

"The bayou isn't easy to move through," Johnny Ray said. "And anyway, where would you go?"

"Haven't figured that part out yet," Tim admitted. "Was hoping you'd have some ideas."

"My idea is to shut up and do your time."

They walked back to the pile of ties slowly, their footsteps in sync so they wouldn't trip or fall.

"I'm gonna do it with or without you helping," Tim said. "It'd go a lot easier with your help."

Johnny Ray looked over. "I don't think you understand. You see this?"

He held out his hand, and Tim noticed burn marks on all the fingers. They looked like the burn mark Curly and the Curtis kid had given each other with the tips of their cigarettes, playing chicken one day.

"I got letters out," Johnny Ray said, his voice low. "A few to my sister. They found out that I smuggled them out."

"How?"

"I worked in the laundry," Johnny Ray said. "Convinced one of the laundry drivers to take it to my sister. I told you I was local. So are they. Everyone knows me and the driver felt bad for my sister. So they took the letters. Only Striker found out somehow, and did this."

Tim picked up another tie and moved it with Johnny Ray, keeping silent every time a guard passed.

"I get it," Tim said. "Shit's bad here. All the more reason to leave."

"All the more reason to disappear into the walls, be quiet and serve your time," Johnny Ray said.

"Ain't my style," Tim said. "Come on. Help me out."

Johnny Ray sighed and it sounded like it came from his very soul.

"Alright." He looked resigned. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything you can tell me. How big is the bayou?"

"Huge," he said. "Part of it is a state park, protected land. You can follow the bayou river all the way to New Orleans, if you stay with it."

"Anywhere to hide out there? Cabins, hunting blinds, anything like that?"

Johnny Ray hesitated. "There's cabins, quite a few, but they'll be the first place Striker looks. He caught prisoners there before. Everything I tell you, you gotta know that they already know it. They're locals too, don't forget that."

"Anything they wouldn't know?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, it's always seemed like an impossible escape, so I don't see the purpose in trying. You could find a boat, maybe travel the length of the bayou. Strikersville is in-land enough that the town folks and the bayou folks don't mix much. Just a small grocery store and a bar on the old highway, really. You follow the bayou, it bends away from Strikersville and passes out of the parish. You won't see any towns. No one builds that close to the bayou, although people live there. Towns are all inland."

"Any chance of boosting a car?"

"Yeah, but then you have to get past roadblocks."

"What if we waited out, hid in the bayou?"

Johnny Ray smiled for the first time, an easy grin. "I think you would not last that long."

Tim snorted with derision. "Yeah, I think we'd surprise you."

Johnny Ray looked over at Dallas, busy hammering the railroad ties. "You're taking him?"

Tim looked over at Dallas and saw him like Johnny Ray might have. Dallas was holding his own, hauling the railroad ties, sweat on his face. He stood out in the prison, and he thought before it would've made him someone's bitch, but Dallas had a look about him, even at seventeen, that told you to back the fuck up.

He looked cool, tough, and completely city. Dallas Winston did not look like someone who was familiar with the outdoors in the least.

But Tim knew he worked with Buck's horses, rode in the rodeos, so maybe Dallas might have a knack for outdoor kinds of stuff.

"You're going to die. Both of you," Johnny Ray said, a hint of a smile on his face.

"If I stay here, I know I will."

They moved a few more ties, making sure the guards didn't pay much attention to them.

"What's there to eat out there?" Tim asked.

Johnny Ray shrugged. "Plenty. Gator, fish, all kinds of stuff to hunt. But you won't be able to do that without starting a fire, and that'll give you away."

Tim started to wonder if there was any way to hoard their food. He was always starving by the time they got back, and he had no way to save any food.

"These cabins," Tim said. "Would you be able to draw a map to them?"

"With what?" Johnny Ray said.

Tim knew as well as anyone that prison was all about commodities. Victor and Henri had already shared cigarettes, so Tim knew the prisoners had contraband. The guards didn't seem to much care that the prisoners smoked, and he didn't know where the cigarettes came from, but after meeting with Striker, he wondered how much Striker did to gain favour with the prisoners. He could hand a pack off to someone like Henri for just about anything. Paper and pencils and other things like that might be something Johnny Ray could come by if he tried.

He still had the maps tucked into his jumpsuit. He had studied the prison one, but it still hadn't yielded any clue to the weird symbols. He wished he'd thought to take a map of the larger area.

Tim was about to tell Johnny Ray to find some paper at any cost when he thought of something.

"Okay, think of the prison like the whole area. Where the cafeteria is, that's the prison."

He saw Johnny Ray working it over in his mind.

"Then the bayou is everything down the hallway that goes past the showers and out to the prison yard, then beyond the prison."

"Okay, then what about the creek?"

Johnny Ray hoisted up another railroad tie and Tim helped with his end. "There's two. One runs by the prison, the other runs by here. They hook up with the Guidry. There's two arms to the Guidry. We're on the west side. There's an east side too, which you reach if you follow the prison creek down. This creek here keeps you on the west side. All the cricks around here are arms of the Atchafalaya."

Using this method, Tim managed to get a good layout of the area.

"You said some prisoners were found at a cabin last time," Tim said. "Where are these cabins?"

"All over. This side of the Guidry there's a few hunting cabins and blinds. Other side of the river's arm is the same thing. I won't send you to the other side. The prisoners got caught there." He hoisted another tie. "First place they'd look, right? You'd be foolhardy to try to cross the river anyway if you leave from here. Freeze your nuts off."

"When did the prisoners get caught?"

"Awhile back," he said. "They escaped from the prison laundry. They were on the other side of the Guidry from here, since it's closest to the prison. None of them came back. Alive, anyway. You need to stay away from those cabins. They're bad news. The whole area is - filled with gators and snakes. That side of the river's arm is bad news."

Tim figured Johnny Ray was right that the warden and his cronies would probably search the cabins first. But if they could escape from _this_ side, crossing the river might not be what they'd expect. They'd search all the closest cabins on the west side first.

"You haven't mentioned the most important part," Johnny Ray said.

"What's that?"

"How you're going to get away from here at all."

Tim looked around. There was a light breeze and clear blue skies.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I'm still working on that part."

XXXX

On the ride back to the prison, Tim had Dallas block everyone's view of his hands, and Tim used the nail he'd snagged to try and work the cuffs shackled onto his wrists. He worked it until his fingers were red and sore, but never managed to pop the lock.

"This plan of yours sucks already," Dallas said.

"I didn't say the plan was going to go right off," Tim said. "We may have to wait a few weeks or even months for a good chance. You need to be ready."

"I'm always ready."

As the bus rumbled near the prison, Tim tucked the nail away in his sock. He was pretty sure it wasn't going to work. He had some experience with picking locks, and he picked cuffs once when O'Lafferty had cuffed him in front and sat him in the car. He'd found a paperclip in the backseat and had them open in seconds.

The nail was a bit too big to get it in far enough to pop the lock. He didn't want to risk leaving scratches all over the cuffs either.

The bus rumbled to a stop and everyone was unloaded and taken in to the cafeteria.

Tim's mind wouldn't stop working. He looked at Dallas as they ate.

"I mean it when I say be ready," Tim said. "Johnny Ray gave me all kinds of info about where cabins were on the work site side of the river, down in the bayou. There's cabins on the other side too, but I can't get much out of him about those. Prisoners got caught there."

"That's all fine and well, but you don't even got a distraction planned so we can get out."

"I know," Tim said. "It's the unplanned one I'm waiting for."

XXXX

A week later, Tim's entire plan - what little there was of it - was ruined.

They were taken out to the site six days a week, given only Sunday to rest. On Monday, about two and a half weeks after they'd been sentenced, Tim was cuffed to Dally, working on the last few feet of railway ties, when one of the prisoners, the one who'd been cuffed to Johnny Ray most of the time, took off.

He had been unshackled at the time to help the construction workers. With all the work going on around them, they needed some of the prisoners unshackled, without another person attached to them.

The guards had been wary at first, but after a week and a half with no problems, they seemed to relax a little as everyone worked, probably assuming that no one would try and make a break for it out here.

Tim wasn't paying attention at first and only heard the shouts of the guards. He and Dally stopped the work they were doing – moving old parts of the partially dismantled trestle bridge – and looked around to see what the commotion was.

A man in an orange jumpsuit was headed to the tree line, struggling to run to cover. It looked as if he might make it too. Tim figured he must have been inching his way away before he took off running.

"We should go now!" Dallas said, pulling on Tim's sleeve. Tim glanced around, seeing the guards were watching the action.

The only problem was their route to the edge of the creek was blocked by the guard's Jeep and two of them standing there with high-powered rifles.

"Come on!" Dallas said, urging Tim the opposite direction of where he wanted to go. The tree line was much further away – there was no way they wouldn't be shot or caught up to with that much open space. Hell, if they ran, the only good it would do was giving this other guy a chance to make it himself.

"Hold still, Dally, not now."

"Fuck you, not now, you talk about getting outta here and now you won't go?!"

"It's ain't the right time."

Dallas kicked at some stones by his feet, and Tim looked at the escaping prisoner again.

The orange jumpsuit served its purpose – he was easy to spot. Tim saw some of the guards aim and take fire and he cringed, watching the man duck and continue to run. Two guards jumped into a nearby jeep and pulled out, while the other guards pulled their guns up on the working prisoners, ordering them all to stop what they were doing and move closer together. Guards came by and shackled everyone together in a line.

The jeep was gaining on the man quickly. A guard in the Jeep took aim, and the crack of the shot echoed. Tim looked down as the man fell to the ground. The Jeep was at him a moment later. The man was struggling to his feet, shot in the back. Instead of cuffing him and shoving him into the Jeep, one of the guards raised his gun and fired. Tim saw the man fall over into the foot high grass. He'd almost made it to the trees, and beyond that, the road and the bayou.

"Son of a bitch," Tim whispered.

"Now you all see how pointless it is to run," a guard said. "We can always find you, we can always catch you, and we will shoot to kill."

The prisoners were instructed to sit down, and soon the guards came back.

"Search them!" a guard roared. "I don't want Striker thinking we're not taking this seriously."

"Get rid of it, man," Dallas said, under his breath.

Tim picked the nail out of his pocket and palmed it, then as everyone stood up, he dropped it on the ground, lost in the noise of boots and chains on gravel.

He had left the map and papers back in his cell, crammed into a space under the drain, forgetting to tuck them in his jumpsuit like he did every day, just in case an escape opportunity presented itself. He was thankful he'd forgotten.

The guards came to pat down each prisoner, and Tim noted that nothing contraband was found, or else no one on this chain gang was looking to get away.

He wondered why the guy had up and done it. He didn't seem so into it before.

They returned to work shortly after, and it was late in the afternoon when Johnny Ray was working near them.

"He thought your idea to escape here could work," Johnny Ray said. "Tell me now you won't try it. You can see for yourself it doesn't work."

Tim shared a look with Dallas, and he could tell Dallas knew he wasn't backing out.

"You still in?" Tim asked.

Dally nodded. "I am now."

Maybe seeing that guy killed had knocked some sense into old Dally.

"Good," Tim said.

"You're both crazy," Johnny Ray said. "If they catch you, they'll kill you. You saw it."

"They ain't gonna catch us."

Johnny Ray shook his head. "You're stubborn, like mules."

Tim picked up the crow bar he'd been given to work with that day and continued to pull metal spikes out of the old railroad ties.

The Jeep was going to be a problem.

Their best chance was to try and get down the steep bank to the creek and follow it to the bayou. Running to the trees would give them a clear shot in the Jeep. The Jeep wouldn't be able to make it down the steep embankment. The only problem is it left the guards with high ground to take shots at them.

The other option was heading for the south tree line like the prisoner just had. It was further away, but disappeared into the creek and would lead them to the bayou. Of course, the Jeep would be on them in seconds. There would have to be a major distraction in place for it to give them any sort of cover. Tim had been trying to think of something – maybe setting fire to the gas tank of the Jeep and exploding it or something.

That might not be too difficult. He could smuggle matches to the site with him and use the towels laying around to stuff into the tank. It would disable the Jeep, start a fire and give them some cover.

He sighed, looking at the sun dipping low in the sky. The day was almost over, and he was starting to feel discouraged about their chances. He pulled up an old railroad tie and moved it out of the way, tangling in the chain and almost tripping against Dallas.

Something had to give.

XXXX

Later that night, in the cafeteria, Dallas was quiet and morose.

"We could've gone."

"Yeah, and get shot in the back for our trouble. You saw it," Tim sighed.

"What I saw was them guards so distracted they wouldn't have noticed us leaving."

"Sure," Tim said sarcastically. "Us two hobbling off wouldn't give them any sort of reason to shoot."

"You figure out a way to get those shackles off?"

Tim looked up. "Not yet. I need a bobby pin or paperclip or something. Something metal, thin and bendable."

Dally nodded. "We may have to figure that out later."

"Yeah," Tim said, not relishing the idea of tripping through the forest with Dallas. He looked over at Dally again. "I guess that calls for some practice."

XXXX

For the next week, Dallas and Tim made every effort to get shackled together, and when they were, they worked at walking and moving like a well-oiled machine. It was hard going at first, but soon they both seemed to get the hang of it, and Tim was more confident in their ability to run and move together in the shackles.

Tim couldn't get hold of another nail, but he did have the papers with him. Victor and Henri said nothing when they saw him pull the papers out of his hiding spot. Henri had shook his head like he expected this kind of stupid behaviour from him.

He had thought and rethought his plan. There were some days where he felt it was just the right time to do it, but something always held him back. He was glad it did the day he overheard some of the construction workers talking.

"That dynamite is really sweating," one of them told the guards. "We need these guys to move faster, we gotta get to the blasting. This is the sawdust kind and this stuff is so unstable, I don't even wanna touch it."

"Just get them to touch it."

"You don't understand, you need a licence to have and use dynamite on a work site. It's getting unstable. We need all of the struts down so we can blow the supports, at the latest by midweek. I can't just hand this stuff over to inmates."

The guard chewed on a piece of grass. "We'll get it done."

The construction foreman wandered off, wiping sweat off his forehead and looking just as worried as he had when he'd approached the guard.

Tim had forgotten about the dynamite.

"You hear that?" Tim asked.

Dallas nodded.

"Is he for real?"

"It's a bad deal," Dally said. "Shit like that can go off anytime. When I lived in New York we found a stash of it in this abandoned building in Hell's Kitchen. This one kid, he started flicking off the nitroglycerine with his finger, and every time that shit hit the ground it'd pop like a gunshot."

"What's it sweat for?"

"The nitro leaches out. If it's doing that, they got some old stuff they didn't store too well," Dally said. "Won't take much to set it off."

Tim looked over at him and grinned.

"I smell a distraction," he said.

* * *

**A/N:** Tim, plus Dallas, plus some dynamite? You know what that equals, right?


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

**A/N:** It's time for some Defiant Ones lol.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Tim had planned to try and set the dynamite off a week later, but the guards were still paranoid after the last escape attempt. There was a cold snap that week after the break, and Tim figured they'd be better off waiting until it warmed up - if it did. With December ahead, it wasn't looking good for warm weather, but after another week went by, the temperatures started to pick up again.

Dallas had bitched about waiting, but hadn't done anything to antagonize the guards. Striker had left them both alone, and Tim was grateful for it, although if he had to hear Dallas whine about it one more time he'd pop him one. Tim suspected Henri may have waived Striker off them somehow. Maybe he was feeding him bogus info about their usefulness, because the man hadn't asked to see them again. He also hadn't noticed the papers were missing, and Tim was grateful. The more time that went by, the less likely Striker was to think it was him.

Tim's plan for the dynamite was to pick up what he could from the ground, be it a rock or a spike, toss it toward the box, and see what happened.

Two weeks into December, he felt like the guards had finally relaxed enough. They were unchaining them to work more, and the hawk-eyed glances he'd gotten used to were not as quick in coming. Friday morning, he decided the best time to set off the dynamite would be Monday. His hope was the guards would be tired from the weekend and not at their best Monday.

Friday afternoon, fate stepped in.

He and Dally were boxing up a bunch of railroad spikes the warden had ordered the chain gang bring in. Tim wondered if Striker was egotistical enough to build his own railway to ship all his drug shit out in and decided he probably was. As they set a box down along the south border of the work site, the ground shook, and a huge explosion rocked the area.

Tim and Dally both were knocked off their feet, and in the ensuing chaos, he saw others bloodied and on the ground. His ears rang, the sounds coming from far away.

The fireball of explosions continued over and over, and Tim realized the dynamite had gone. People were running to take cover, and as the guards ran toward the commotion, a stick blew and started a fire, right near the Jeep.

Another stick caught, and a moment later the Jeep exploded into a fireball. The rest of the dynamite sitting in the back of the Jeep went off, sending a portion of the edge of the work site, Jeep included, down into the gully.

"Come on!"

Tim yanked on Dally's arm, and they got up from where they'd been crouching. Tim directed him toward the south, toward the trees, with Dally trying to yank Tim toward the gully, right where the burning Jeep was.

"It ain't safe down there, they got the high ground, come on!"

Dally finally got into step with him and they took off for the tree line. Tim glanced back quickly and saw other orange jump suits running. Shots rang out, and he and Dallas ducked into the sparse trees.

Another explosion echoed through the air, and Tim didn't bother to look back this time, even with the ground rumbling under his feet. They stumbled through the thin forest, the ankle chain catching on roots and small plants. It was slowing them down.

"Come on!" Dallas said, yanking his foot and almost pulling Tim's out from under him.

Tim hustled along, seeing the tree line come to an end as they reached the road.

"Slow down, slow down, the road!" Tim said. "I don't want no one spotting us."

"Fuck that, we need to move!"

Tim crouched down and yanked on the chain, holding Dally back. Dallas yanked on it himself and the two of them fell to the ground.

Tim got up first and crawled toward the road. He looked both ways – no cars and no sign of anyone.

"Come on," he said. "Get up, you son of a bitch."

"Fuck you!" Dally snarled.

"Come ON!" Tim said, getting up and moving toward the road. He felt the tension on the chain lessen as Dallas got up and they dashed across the highway and into the trees again.

"Creek," Tim said, starting to get out of breath. "We need to get to the creek."

Dallas bolted to the right and Tim smacked into a small tree when Dallas bumped him. The guards would catch up in no time with them like this.

"Stay on my left! On my left!" Tim growled. Dallas was chained to Tim's left leg, but Dallas kept pushing over to the right, like he was running on a diagonal.

They headed toward where the creek should be, running at breakneck speed, and suddenly Dallas slid to a stop. Tim was unable to stop his forward motion and went hurtling over the side of an embankment. He tucked, then felt a sharp pain in his leg as the chain caught. He heard Dallas swear, and they were suddenly both tumbling down the embankment, hitting every rock on the way down.

Dallas bounced over Tim at one point, crashing into him. Tim hit a tree, then was yanked around it as Dallas continued his tumble. Tim saw the ground rushing up to meet him and held his arms out to brace himself. A moment later they were both lying in a heap at the bottom of the creek bed.

"You fucking moron!" Tim said, trying to catch his breath, the dust clouded around him. "We've got to work together."

"Me? You're the one who went headlong off the cliff like a maniac."

Tim struggled to stand, and winced as he tried to push himself up. His right wrist was sore and swelling. Great.

He stood up, limping slightly and lifted the pant leg of the jumpsuit. He could see the deep marks the shackle had left on his ankle when the chain caught.

He looked over at Dallas, who was already on his feet and looking impatient to go. Dallas started unbuttoning the snaps on his jumpsuit and tied it at his waist.

"Good idea," Tim said, following suit. They had issued all the men white undershirts, and with all the dirt they were falling into, it'd be much more inconspicuous than the orange jumpsuit.

"We gotta move," Dally said.

Tim nodded, cradling his wrist as he tried to tie the sleeves of the jumpsuit around his waist.

"Hold up," he said. "Inside legs first, alright?"

Dally nodded and they began to move, stumbling on the rocks. The creek was no more than a trickle, and it wasn't going to do much to hide their tracks or their scent. Tim glanced behind him and saw the swath they'd flattened falling down the hill. The guards would find them in no time.

They picked up the pace, running along the almost-dry creek bed for what seemed like an hour. Tim noticed the vegetation was starting to change. The trees got thicker, and soon the creek bed started to get wetter and the creek grew. Soon it emptied into a pond.

They climbed up an embankment and found themselves in what had to be the beginning of the bayou.

The land didn't look swampy yet, but it did look like it was headed that way. From what Tim remembered from the maps, they just had to keep going the direction they were. Soon enough they'd end up coming to the west arm of the Guidry, at least that's what Johnny Ray had told him. The closest cabins were on this side, not too far once they reached the arm, but he was aiming to find a place to cross the river once they found it.

Tim and Dally jogged along, doing alright until the trees got thicker and the environment got more treacherous. Tim stepped out in front, trying to move between all the of the branches and not disturb them like Dally was. Dallas tried to move in front of him again, and went around a tree, tangling the chain.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Tim asked. "We're gonna get so tangled up in here they'll find us both tied to a tree. Watch where you're going."

Dallas turned back to look at Tim. "Yeah, well I didn't see you work out the lock on those shackles, so don't come complaining to me about it. You should've had them off before we ran two steps."

"Fuck you, why don't you do it? So far I've done just about everything!"

"You set the dynamite to explode, huh?" Dallas said. "I must've missed the part where you turned into James Bond."

Dallas took another step backward and Tim tried to stop the momentum as Dallas slipped down a small embankment. Dally's weight was too much on his sore ankle, and he let go, tumbled down with him and crashing again onto the ground.

"That fall better have snapped that chain, because running with you is like having a boulder on my ass," Tim moaned.

Dallas rolled over, wincing as he got up. "Fuck."

Tim glanced down. The shackles had never looked stronger.

He saw the cypress trees and live oak covered with hanging moss right over top the still waters of the small creek. If they followed it, it would probably take them to the river's arm.

"We should go through the water," Dallas said. "Throw the dogs off. You know they'll bring them in."

Tim nodded. He didn't see any signs of gators – not that he knew what to look for – but he'd rather deal with them than Warden Striker.

XXXX

Striker got out of the Jeep and looked around at the remainder of the construction site. The trestle bridge was blown completely to hell, part of the new railroad line was mangled and there was thick black smoke coming from the creek below - what he was told was the remains of one of his Jeeps.

Two guards were being tended to near the prisoner bus, both bleeding from head wounds, and three members of the construction crew also held bloody towels, while another was on the ground, a splint on his leg.

Two prisoners lay on the ground not far away, blood from gunshot wounds dried around their chests. If his guards kept shooting people like this, they'd have no one to work.

Of course, that'd stop if the escapes did. There'd been so many attempts in the last few weeks he was ready to fire the entire security team.

The remaining prisoners were all sitting on the ground, shackled together in leg irons.

"Sir, we haven't located the two other prisoners."

Striker looked over at his head guard. He'd always trusted the man to lead the work crews, but he wasn't so sure he could lead anything right about now.

"What the hell happened here?"

"Dynamite exploded."

"Who caused it?"

"No one, sir," he sighed. "Apparently the dynamite was sweating, made it really unstable. One of the prisoners was moving it and dropped a stick. It set off just about all of it, caught the Jeep. There were a lot of explosions, a lot of chaos."

"And in the chaos, two of my prisoners got away."

"Five, actually, but we recovered three. One's in cuffs, two are dead, including the guy who set this whole thing in motion."

"The other two?"

"We don't know. We think they went south, toward the bayou. Do you want us to call Sheriff MacGregor and get the dog team in here?"

"You should've done it already. Who are the escapees?"

The guard flipped through his papers. "Timothy Shepard and Dallas Winston, both of Tulsa, Oklahoma."

Striker closed his eyes. Those fucking kids.

Henri Boudreaux had told him he didn't think the kids were worth it. He told Striker they talked a big game, but couldn't find their peckers in the dark. Henri was smart, and Striker had backed off, waiting to see if the two kids showed any kind of promise. He knew Shepard wasn't buying anything he did or said, but he had a lot of confidence that Winston had seen it would be better to work with him. He saw the greed in Winston's eyes. That other fucking kid had probably talked him into escaping.

"They went into the bayou?"

"Seems that way," the guard said. "We've got guys trying to follow their trail, but we didn't get moving on it until at least a half hour after they ran. Things up here were nuts, we thought we were gonna lose some of our men because of the accident. One guy got blown onto the steel truss, was hanging by a thread, literally, and it took us fifteen minutes to rescue him. Everyone else was trying to corral the prisoners."

"We'll get the dogs in there," he said. "They can't go far. They don't know the area, and they don't know the bayou. We'll have them back in no time."

XXXX

Tim was out of breath, and every step he took was making his ankle hurt and his wrist ache. He looked behind them and seemed to see their trail blazing up a trail right to them.

"Okay," he said to Dallas. "Let's get into the water, waist deep only. We'll wade through the creek awhile to try and throw off any dogs they bring in."

"You think they will?" Dallas asked.

"Oh yeah," Tim said. "Once that sheriff finds out we took off I wouldn't be surprised if he calls in the damn Army to hunt us down."

"You think you can find these cabins?"

He nodded. "Johnny Ray explained where a bunch were. He kept directing me off to the ones on this side. He said the last guys to get caught got caught on the east side, the other side of the river. I don't know if I believe him. Something wasn't right with him. Maybe he wanted to use it as a hide out himself."

"Maybe it's his cabin."

Tim had thought about that – it was possible.

"Come on."

He moved into the water, tripping a little on the mushy bottom, glad he was wearing sneakers. Dallas followed him in until they were waist deep.

They had to use each other for balance, and Tim got sick of Dally throwing so much weight on his shoulders.

"Quit it!" he said. "And try not to fall over again, I don't wanna get dunked in this stuff."

The water was murky and impossible to see through. Things floated on top of it and water bugs jumped out of the way as they moved. It was slow going, since they didn't want to churn up the water in case the guards were closer than they thought.

"Ah!"

Tim stopped as Dallas stumbled, pulling his leg out from under him. Tim ended up under the water for a second and came up sputtering water.

"I swear to God, if I get some kind of disease from this water, I'll drown you in it and leave you for the gators."

"You think there's really alligators in here?" Dallas asked. "For real?"

Tim tried to move, but Dallas wouldn't budge.

"They're more scared of you than you are of them," Tim said. "Let's go."

"I didn't say I was scared," Dallas said. "I'm just saying that alligators can drown a grown man."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"From that Cajun kid, Johnny Ray," Dallas said. "I asked him about some shit in case we ran off in here, and he said the gators can lunge faster than you can blink. He told me this story about how a gator down in the brackish water –"

"'Brackish water?'" Tim asked. "Do you even know what that is?"

"He told me about this gator, alright, you wanna hear this story or not? So this gator is the biggest thing going in the bayou down the river some, south of here. And he lunged at this guy fishing in a boat, toppled the boat over, grabbed the guy in his jaws and started to roll him – you know it's bad when they roll you. They drag you down and drown you, then eat you whole."

"You are so full of shit."

"That's what he told me," Dallas said. "I don't know about you, but I'm not real eager to go and prove this Johnny Ray kid wrong, you know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, well we either try our luck with gators or Striker," Tim said. "Seeing as we escaped his chain gang, I'm liable to think the gators will be friendlier."

XXXX

MacGregor got the call around three in the afternoon.

Warden Striker had called a few times when prison breaks were made. Usually the calls came in the dead of night. Once, he got a call from him cancelling the hunt, saying his guards had put down the escapees. If Striker kept on doing that there wouldn't be enough cons in the county to run his precious prison operation.

He hung the phone up quickly and looked over at Roundtree.

"Get on the horn and call everybody in," he said.

"What's going on?" Roundtree asked.

"Prison break at Strikersville," MacGregor said. "Those two mouthy kids we had in here a month back."

"Where are they headed?" Roundtree asked.

"South of here. Just get on the phone, roust all the deputies you can, get them to meet us at the Strikersville bridge construction site."

"I heard there was an explosion out that way," Roundtree said. "Some construction crew was hurt."

MacGregor nodded. "Something to do with this break, I'll reckon. Get on the phone."

Roundtree got to work, and MacGregor turned around in his chair to look at the map posted behind him. South of the site was the creek, which led right into the bayou. It was the biggest in the state, miles of water, ground, trees, gators, animals, hunting blinds, cabins, roads only known to locals and more. It would be a hell of a hunt in there.

"Call the dog team too," he said, not bothering to look and see if Roundtree was listening.

He studied the map. He hated going into the bayou. Despite living out here, he really was a townie at heart. He hated the woods, the forest, the trees, all the plants mucking everything up. He always got snagged in something, cut and scraped up. He hated that damn place and he hated those two punk kids for dragging him in there.

His forehead creased. Last time had been pretty bad. Three men had escaped from the prison during the night. The dog teams and chased them right to the Landry place. Jean-Rene was out, probably rabble rousing it up with friends, and MacGregor needed to get his hands on those escapees and keep his record impeccable. Capturing them sooner rather than later would inspire confidence.

They had found them miles down the waterway in the Landry skiff, but that proved nothing. They could've stolen it, the Landry kid could've given it to them. They headed to the Landry place and questioned Josie Landry. She was a mouthy one herself, looking like a mirror image of her dead mother, complete with contemptuous eyes and a penchant for getting more Cajun the more she spoke to them, like she didn't want them to understand a word she was saying. She lapsed into French more than once, calling them names.

The kid had pushed him off the porch, and he'd landed in a mud puddle that soaked him clear to the bone and ruined one of his good uniforms. He hadn't argued when his Hickom had slapped her, or when him and Lee had started poking at her, touching her hair, saying off colour things. When Striker told MacGregor to take a walk with him, he knew what it meant for the kid. He was so angry about his good outfit and brand new hat, he had stalked off in a rage, railing at Striker that he'd throw the mouthy brat in jail.

He'd rethought his walk when he heard her screams in the bayou. Striker had lit up a cigarette, cicadas and frogs having a duet in the dark.

"She won't be harbouring fugitives next time they escape," he said, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

MacGregor's mouth was a dry as sawdust, and it stayed that way a long time.

Jean-Rene had beat up Hickom in a bar fight not too long after – he'd never seen a man look the way Hickom had and survived. It made him sick to see Hickom's face, and the town as a whole, having no idea what Hickom had done, wanted Jean-Rene to pay dearly. He'd gone in for six or seven years for that, and everyone had been satisfied. Jean-Rene had never talked, and he suspected Striker was holding his mail.

He looked at the map again.

The best route for the escapees to take would keep them on the west side of the Guidry river. They'd be foolish to try and cross it – even though it was December, the weather had been warm the last few days and the gators were out. Even when they weren't, they'd hole up in muddy areas and hang around waiting for the warm weather. The mothers would still be with their young, and they could get mighty aggressive if they detected a threat, and two prisoners were just that.

If he was lucky, nature would take its course and they'd find the two loudmouths half eaten by a gator.

If they somehow got away … he started to sweat at the idea. Those two could go to a neighbouring parish and God only knew what they'd seen in that prison to blab about. If anyone other than him got hold of his nephew Tommy, the story about the gas station robbery would be blown to hell – Tommy would shit out the truth like he had the runs.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

They had to find those two escapees. Anyone else he could handle, but those two would be his undoing.

* * *

**A/N:** And the hunt is on! Dallas and Tim versus dogs and lawmen. My money's on the gators.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Hopefully she doesn't mind me plunging these guys into life threatening situations. **  
**

**A/N:** For zevie, who has been begging for twice a week updates.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Roundtree had put the calls out with trepidation. He didn't like manhunts like this. He'd been on the periphery of the last one, and only found out how bad it had been in the centre of things after it was all over. This one had the potential to get even worse.

He was afraid the escapees would head to the Landry place, but once he saw the map he realized they probably wouldn't. They'd have to cross the river since they escaped from the other side. The previous escapees had escaped from the prison, on the Landry side of the river. The train bridge area was on the west side of the river and these city boys wouldn't risk crossing it, not in the dead of winter, warm weather or not.

So that left a handful of cabins he'd do his best to direct everyone to on the west side. He'd keep them away from the Landry place, more for their protection from Josie. He'd seen her eyes when she said she'd shoot next time she saw them, and the girl wasn't kidding. The last thing he wanted was her dead after what they'd done. She'd be shot – in the back, in the head – and they'd spin a story. That wasn't going to happen.

Hell, these escapees didn't deserve this either. He knew the robbery story was bullshit. Tommy MacGregor had admitted as much when he gave his statement, a rambling, incoherent one he contradicted over and over. MacGregor had railroaded those kids, and as much as he hated it, there wasn't anything he could've done. He didn't like the idea of directing the search their way, but he didn't see any other option.

He glanced over toward the map above MacGregor's desk.

Well, maybe that wasn't true. Maybe there was something he could do. If the escapees could get down the bayou enough, get to one of the smaller towns, they could make it out. Out of their parish it wouldn't be their problem – hell, he didn't see MacGregor putting the word out on the wire or anything.

Roundtree smiled to himself. MacGregor didn't want anyone to know.

And that was his ace in the hole.

XXXX

MacGregor pulled up to the construction site around three-thirty. They only had a few hours of sunlight left, and they needed to get that dog team here as soon as possible.

Roundtree was in the passenger seat, looking worried.

"We'll catch these sons of bitches," MacGregor said.

Roundtree nodded. "Where do you think they've gone?"

MacGregor looked around. "Depends on the route they took. South down the bayou through those trees seems most likely. They'll stay on this side of the river."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Wait for the dog team."

MacGregor got out of the car. He was already sweating and short of breath in the late afternoon heat. Flies buzzed around his head.

He put his hat on and walked over toward Striker.

"What the hell happened here?"

MacGregor took a look around for the first time, seeing scorched earth, blood dried in the dirt and a row of prisoners sitting on the hard ground.

"Explosion was set off, dynamite too, the Jeep went over."

"What happened when they ran off?"

"They weren't the only ones," a guard said. "We fired on everyone that ran, but didn't hit those two. They had a head start, I guess."

MacGregor was relieved when he saw Hickom and Lee show up. They weren't the sharpest tools in the shed, but they'd outshine every one of Striker's guards.

They were in a marked car and got out, surveying the damage.

"How many escaped?" Hickom asked.

"Two they still haven't found," MacGregor said. "You have any idea if the dog team's on the way?"

Roundtree approached the group. "I got Pender on the radio, he's on his way now."

"I want those two caught, any means necessary," MacGregor said, his voice low. "They can't get out of this parish, that clear? They do, and it's your badges."

Hickom and Lee exchanged glances.

"Any means?"

"Anything," MacGregor said. "Striker wants 'em back alive, I think, but I don't give a damn. I'd prefer you bring them back in body bags."

"Sir, they're kids," Roundtree said.

"Kids with records longer than my arm, attitudes to match. They robbed my nephew at gun point, and now they caused all this mayhem. We got people dead here. I want them brought down. If the end up in the bayou in a gator's jaw, then all the better for us. You got that?"

All of his deputies nodded. MacGregor stepped into the shade, watching as Gil Pender arrived with his two bloodhounds.

XXXX

Before the search started, MacGregor ordered the deputies to talk to the prisoners. When Roundtree pulled Jean-Rene Landry over, he didn't even have to ask him a question.

"You know they've gone in the bayou," Jean-Rene said. "You know what they'll do if they think they went across the river. Josie said you aren't like the others."

Roundtree looked over at Hickom and Lee. He looked back at Jean-Rene, but didn't say anything.

"I know not everyone can agree with what he does. He put me in here, that's fair for what I did, but you know Hickom and Lee should be in here for what they did to Josie."

Roundtree nodded slowly.

"The Shepard kid, he's smart. I told him about the cabins on this side of the river, but he knew I was holding out. I think the stupid son of a bitch will cross the river. There's a cabin a mile up from Josie they'll hit first, if they cross at the low water."

Roundtree looked at Jean-Rene. "I think Hickom and Lee might want to search the east side too. Not because those boys are running there, either."

Jean-Rene looked him in the eye. "Then you keep them on the west side as long as you can, and you get to Josie first. I don't think she'll hurt those boys, but if they find her, so will the badges. You find her first. Else you'll have two dead deputies to worry about."

XXXX

"I don't like this," Dallas said.

"I heard you the last time," Tim answered.

They were moving slowly through the swampy water, waist deep and colder than either of them expected. They hadn't seen anything in the water yet, and Tim would never admit it, but it was creeping him out.

It was slow going in the water thanks to the chain, which kept getting caught up on branches, rocks and other things at the bottom of the water. Tim kept envisioning it tangling around an angry alligator.

Dallas stumbled against him, almost knocking him off his feet. This whole escape would go a lot more smoothly if they weren't chained together. Dally tripped again.

"Watch where the fuck you're going!"

"It wasn't me, it was the damn chain," Dallas said. "We gotta get this off. You ever think about what's going to happen if they catch up to us? We start to run and they'll be on us in a heartbeat."

Tim had thought about it. The chains and shackles needed to come off if they had any chance. Even if they made it out of here to some kind of civilization, they would stand out like crazy in prison clothes shackled together. They wouldn't be able to be seen anywhere without someone raising the alarm. Hell, they'd probably get shot on sight by just about anyone.

The arms of his jumpsuit unravelled at his waist and trailed behind, and Tim took a second to tie them back up. He hoped the papers pinned in the pocket would survive the water. He stopped in his tracks a minute later.

"What are you doing?" Dally asked. Tim had lowered himself in the water up to his neck.

"Dirtying up the shirt a bit. It's too white, we should try and make it blend in more."

"I think we stick out just fine ourselves."

Dallas hesitated a second, then took the shirt off and tossed it in the water to dirty it up. He tied it onto the sleeve of the jumpsuit after and moved ahead shirtless.

"You're gonna get eaten alive by mosquitoes that way."

"Fuck off."

They moved through the water slowly again, pausing every so often to listen for the sounds of dogs or men. They approached a bend in the water and Tim paused as they moved around a log.

"What?"

He nodded ahead of them and watched as Dallas's eyes seemed to almost bulge out of his head. About twenty feet away was a large alligator, sailing through the water. It seemed they were now in alligator territory: the mouth of the bayou.

"Holy shit," Dally whispered. "What do we do? That thing is fucking huge."

"Don't move," Tim said. "And keep your damn voice down. I don't think it cares about us."

"Yet," Dally said morosely. "It hasn't had a good look at us. We probably look like grade A chuck to that thing."

The alligator approached the bank and slid out of the water, it's large tail flicking it easily out of the water.

"It's staring at me," Dally said.

"Don't look at it!"

"I ain't walking past that thing in this water," Dallas said. "We're in that motherfucker's backyard, he's got an advantage."

Tim couldn't deny that. He looked over at the bank closest to them.

"Come on."

He moved slowly, but the water rippled with every motion. He grabbed for a low-hanging branch, and tried to pull himself up the slippery slope. The alligator was making an odd huffing sound.

"Move!" Dallas said, almost shoving Tim out of the way. Just as Tim hauled most of himself out of the water, Dallas caused him to lose his balance and slip back in. He felt the chain tug against his ankle again. Dallas was already up on the shore.

"Fucking pussy," Tim said. "Help me outta here."

Dallas looked like he wanted to do anything but, but he didn't really have a choice. The only benefit to the chains was that neither one of them was going to leave the other behind. Dally hauled him up on the bank beside him. They both lay on their backs, looking up at the trees stretching to the sky. Tim was breathing heavily.

Tim sat up and watched the alligator, motionless on the bank. It's mouth was open, all of its teeth visible.

"What the hell is it doing?" Dallas asked, watching it with suspicious eyes.

"I don't know," Tim admitted. "Daydreaming about convict soup, how the fuck should I know?"

Dallas stood up and must've forgotten about the chain, because he yanked on it, hurting Tim's already sore ankle.

"We need to get rid of these things," Dallas said. "We're sitting ducks with this shit attaching us. I'll cut my own fucking leg off if I have to."

"Here," Tim said. "Gimme that rock."

Dallas scooted over and picked up the triangular rock sitting nearby, forcing Tim to move over as well. Tim grabbed the rock from Dallas and tried to smash the shackles.

"Not there," Dallas said. "You gotta hit it near the cuff."

"Stop it," Tim said, shoving Dallas's hands away. "Let me do this."

"You're fucking it up, give me the damn rock."

"Get your own fucking rock."

"Just give it over!"

Dallas yanked it out of Tim's hand and aimed it for the shackle on his ankle. He missed and ended up slamming it against Tim's leg.

"If them guards don't kill you, I will," Tim said between gritted teeth. He pounded a fist into the spongy ground.

"You moved."

"I didn't fucking move, you have lousy aim."

"I do not."

"I've seen you take a piss, you can't even hit the bowl."

"Fuck you!"

"What, you want to do everything your girlfriends do?"

Dallas lunged at him and caught him with a right hook to the jaw. Tim managed to push him back, knee Dallas in the crotch, then lunged at his midsection, toppling them over again. He punched Dally in the eye, then he slowed as he heard the strange, loud huffing begin again. The alligator bellowed and Tim froze, his hand balled up in a fist headed for Dallas's face, Dally's hand holding of a swath of his jumpsuit.

"You wanna get off me, Shepard?" Dallas asked from beneath him. "I don't much like thinking that prison changed you into a fairy."

Tim looked down, realizing he was straddling a half-naked Dallas Winston, and moved off him. He looked toward the alligator, it's huffing loud and strange.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Tim said, looking around the bayou slowly.

"Yeah, let's beat it," Dally said. All they could hear were birds and that strange breathing sound. "This place is giving me the creeps."

XXXX

They moved through the brush as best they could, finding areas which almost looked like trails sometimes. The small creek they'd waded through had joined up with a wide, swampy river a mile back. Tim hoped it was the west arm of the Guidry.

"Are you sure we're going to find a cabin?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "Johnny Ray said they were on both sides of the river. He said there were plenty on the west side. He said they caught the prisoners from the last break on the east side and we should avoid it because they'd search there first."

"I doubt it," Dallas said. "Maybe if we'd escaped from the prison."

"Just what I was thinking. He was trying to keep us on this side. Dunno why. I figure we cross the river at some point, then find a cabin on the east side. It could buy us some time."

"You better know where the hell you're going," Dallas said. "I'm not going back inside because you have a lousy sense of direction."

"Yeah, well I don't see you leading."

The sun was beginning to set, lowering in the sky and casting long shadows. He wanted to be across the river before it was dark – he wasn't sure if alligators were nocturnal or not, and he wasn't really itching to find out either.

The sun was almost down as they moved down the river, following along the banks, and Tim wished he'd crossed it further back when it was lower water. The river had widened and looked dark and foreboding, even with the last of the day's sun still in the sky.

"We gotta swim it, huh?" Dallas asked. He pulled his wet shirt back on over his head.

"Yeah," Tim said.

They approached the shore and got into the water, surprised by how much colder it was.

"We're gonna fucking freeze to death tonight," Dallas said, his teeth already chattering.

"Come on."

They walked into the river as far as they could before the ground vanished from under them. Swimming was hard, since the shackles and chain weighed them down, along with the weight of their jumpsuits.

Tim was making it okay, but Dallas seemed to be struggling.

"You are not going to drown," Tim said. "You'd be like a fucking lead weight dragging me to hell with you. Come on, swim you lousy son of a bitch!"

"Fuck … you," Dallas managed.

Tim looked back, seeing Dallas's head was barely above the water. The cocksucker didn't look like he could swim.

"Shit."

He grabbed Dallas's arm and yanked him forward. "Come on, I'm not dragging you all the way over."

"I'm … fine."

"You're swallowing half the river. You end up with some kind of disease I don't want you puking on me."

Dallas was trying to move and not getting far. Tim was tiring out easily after their run and the chain wasn't making life easier. The weight was getting hard to swim with.

"Didn't you ever learn to swim?"

"Where? New York?" Dallas answered, out of breath.

"We got lakes in Tulsa, numb nuts."

"I spend my time making … out with chicks … next to the lakes," Dallas said. "Not swimming in 'em."

Tim had to chuckle at that.

He looked around and spotted a log floating, then stopped to think. It might not be a log and it was hard to tell now that the sun was just about gone.

Dallas made a choking sound, and Tim decided to risk it. Jesus Christ, it better not be a sleeping alligator floating down the river.

He reached out for the log and was relieved to feel that it was wood. He pulled the small log toward him, then back toward Dallas.

"Here, I got you a life preserver," Tim said. "Don't fucking drown."

"We need to get these chains off," Dallas said, sounding more alive now that he could keep his head above water by holding onto something other than Tim.

"If we can find a cabin, maybe there'll be tools or something."

"Hold up," Dally said, floating in the water. "You hear that?"

Tim didn't want to stop swimming - they seemed to be moving downstream, although slowly, and he didn't want to get lost or disoriented. Tim could hear the croaking of frogs, the hooting of owls and other birds, and crickets or cicadas somewhere in the bush.

"Hear what?"

"An engine of some kind, I think," Dally said. "Listen."

Tim could hear a medium pitched whine in the distance. He hoped it wasn't a cop. Whoever it was, they were going to spot the two of them bobbing in the middle of the river.

Tim looked toward the shore. He could've made it, but Dallas probably wouldn't, not that fast.

"We're going to have to duck under the water," Tim said.

"Are you fucking nuts?" Dally said. "I'll have to let go of this thing, it'll float away."

"Oh, okay, let's risk getting spotted by the cops and hold on to your precious log, Dally."

He could almost see the angry look Dallas must be giving him in the dark. The sky was a deep blue, the sun gone and the moon starting to rise.

"Wait 'til it's a bit closer, then take a deep breath and go under," Tim said. "Hold your breath until I tell you, and when you come up, don't be sputtering all over the place and coughing and choking like a moron. Be as quiet as you can."

The engine noise got louder, and a moment later Tim saw the bow of a small skiff come around the river bend upstream.

"Now," he whispered.

They both took a big breath and slowly sunk under the water. Tim prayed there wouldn't be any hungry alligators deciding to take a bite out of them at that instant.

He could still hear the whine of the motor and stayed under the water as long as he could. The shackle was pulling him under farther than he wanted to go, and he knew he couldn't last much longer.

He could hear the noise as the boat passed very close to them, and hoped it wasn't so close it'd take one of their heads off with the propeller. He wished there was a way he could get the propeller to cut the fucking chains off. He was starting to think having Dally along was going to increase their chances of being caught.

He stayed under longer, feeling Dallas struggle to get to the surface. He tried to hold him down, but Dally was scratching at him, then kicked him in the mid-section. Tim lost his air and sailed up to the surface, his lungs burning.

He took a large gulp of air as quietly as he could, but then the surface was broken by Dallas, who was gasping for air like a little girl, and trying to stifle his coughs.

"Great," Tim said.

He looked downriver – the boat wasn't visible anymore, but he could still hear the engine, and as far as he could tell, it was still heading away from him. As long as it didn't stop or turn around, they were okay.

Dallas was struggling to stay afloat again. The log Tim had got for him was too far down the river to catch up to, and the shore was much closer.

"Come on," Tim said, trying to yank Dallas through the water, his head slipping below the water as the shackle weighed him down. "How someone who says he's so tough can't even kick through the water, I'll never know. Just wait 'til everyone hears about this."

"Fuck you," Dallas said. "I've done more work than you on those chain gangs, I'm more tired."

"That's bullshit, we're chained together, we do the same amount of work," Tim said. "Come on!"

Dallas was halfheartedly kicking, and Tim wondered if he was playing feint just so Tim would do all the work. Dallas's head slipped under the water again for a minute, then re-appeared. He was going to get nabbed for sure with Dallas chained to him. They needed to be unshackled and free, to either run together or go their separate ways, but this chained bullshit had to end.

"You weigh about two hundred pounds, help me out, man," Tim said, tired. He felt the chain dragging him down again and struggled to pull the shackle through the water. He hit Dallas's leg with his own.

"One-sixty-five, if that," Dallas choked out. "You asshole."

A moment later Tim felt his shoe hit the soft river bottom, and he just about threw a damn party. He hauled Dallas toward the shore, and Dally finally found his legs. The two of them crawled out of the river and collapsed on the shoreline in the mud, exhausted and cold. Steam rose off their bodies, but Tim was cold and shivering. It had felt warmer in the water.

Tim was breathing heavily, and Dallas was shivering. Without the sun to dry them, it was going to be a really cold night. They couldn't risk starting a fire – the smell and the light would give away their position in no time.

That'd sure be insulting – to get all this way and be caught because they were cold. What they had to do was find a cabin, find a way to get the shackles off and then get dry.

"We gotta move," Tim said. He was exhausted, hungry, cold and dying for some water, but they had to move.

"We're gonna trip over our own feet and kill ourselves if we keep travelling at night."

"It's not night, it's like seven o'clock," Tim said. "And maybe you'll trip over your own feet, but I'm fine."

Dallas gave a harsh laugh. "What a fucking joke this is, huh?"

"Yeah," Tim said, staring at a star shining through the canopy of trees overhead. "Some joke, right? Joke'll be on Striker if we get outta here. I stole some shit from his office. He'll piss himself when he realizes."

"Those papers? Anything good?"

"Our records. A few other things," Tim said, not wanting to give it all away.

"Good, I always wanted my record," Dallas said. "Least I'll get something out of this shit experience. Come on, we should move."

Tim got up and looked around, concerned to note that he couldn't see very far off. The whole bayou was loud and alive, but surprisingly dark. There should be a just past full moon out there, but Tim didn't see hide nor hair of it from where he was - the tree canopy blocked out most of the light.

"Where are we headed anyway?" Dallas asked. "You have any idea where these cabins are?"

"Johnny Ray didn't say," Tim admitted. "He only told me about the cabins on the other side, but that's just the side they're going to check first. You know it as well as I do. I know there were some cabins over here. He was hedging when he was telling things, I think he was trying to keep me away from here."

"Maybe there's a reason for it." Tim felt the chain pull as Dally took a few steps forward. "Maybe he's keeping you away for a reason."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Like he's got his own hideout here he don't want us to find."

"If he had his own hideout he would've taken off himself ages ago," Tim said. "He wasn't too eager to do anything but serve out his sentence."

"Then maybe it's a trap," Dally said. "Maybe he told you where not to go because he knew you'd go, then he'll tell the warden and the sheriff to nab us and he'll get all the credit. I bet those old boys would knock a few years off his sentence."

"Somehow I doubt that."

Tim let Dally take the lead for awhile. He was cold to the bone, trying not to shiver and sound like a wuss. His wrist was throbbing, his ankle was swelling, and he could feel the shackle had tightened around it. If it swelled any more it'd be a problem. They needed to find some tools as soon as possible.

He felt branches scratch his arms as he walked by. His shoes were cold and sloshing with water. What he wouldn't give for a hot shower and some food.

"Watch where you're going," Tim said, hearing Dallas crash through the underbrush just ahead of him. "Don't light up a trail for 'em or anything."

Dallas stopped and looked back at him. "You didn't seem too worried before."

"Because we needed to get distance. Now we need to make sure they can't find us."

Tim heard the chain jiggling.

"Yeah, we're pretty quiet and unnoticeable," Dallas said sarcastically.

"I swear to God, we get these things off and I'm taking off my own," Tim said, sick of Dally's complaints and comments. "You can fend for yourself. You'll probably crash through all the underbrush and lead the dogs right to you."

"And you'll navigate your way back to the prison," Dallas said. "Shut up and keep fucking moving."

* * *

**A/N:** There is nothing more satisfying in life than making Dally and Tim argue with each other all the time always. And don't worry. There's more alligator coming, zevie.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I'm just borrowing so I can torture them a little.**  
**

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone for all the reviews! I realize I've been a little light on the Dally POV, so I'll make sure we see what he's thinking in the next chapter. As for this chapter, we've got shout outs to a Matt Dillon movie and a cartoon featuring a tiny pink horse. **  
**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Roundtree nervously looked around the forest as they headed into the bayou. There had been no trace of the prisoners at first, but the dogs had a scent pretty quickly. The two bloodhounds pulled at their leads, and everyone went crashing after them.

They found a section of bushes flattened out, leading to an embankment that showed clear skid lines all the way down to the creek. They followed the creek down until it entered the bayou.

Roundtree had grown up in the area, but the bayou wasn't his favourite place. There was something creepy and otherworldly about the Spanish moss hanging off everything, and the prehistoric-looking alligators staring at you.

He stepped across the spongy ground, sighing at the damage. These two certainly didn't think much about covering their tracks. He saw broken branches, marks from their shoes and disturbed rocks and soil.

He didn't want these two guys getting killed, especially when he knew all they were guilty of was having a handgun in the car without a permit, and around these parts that was par for the course. MacGregor seemed to be taking this one personally, and he knew it was because these guys getting away could blow his whole cover as the beloved sheriff of Strikersville.

He would give anything to have the town realize that Striker and MacGregor were just as dirty as the water in the swamp.

He heard the huffing breath of an alligator nearby. Gators didn't have vocal cords, but they managed to vocalize a little by pushing air out of their lungs. The roars and bellows could be pretty loud.

"Hold up, here," Hickom said. He stopped near a tree to take a leak and Roundtree rolled his eyes. Hickom was looking at this like some kind of a game preserve. He and Lee were already taking bets on who was going to get the prisoners. He didn't like hearing these men, who had vowed to uphold the law just like he did, talking about killing these young kids, one of whom wasn't even legal yet.

These kids probably didn't have families that gave a rat's ass about them, so Roundtree didn't think they'd ever hear from a lawyer if the kids ended up dead. They were the type of hoods who died and people said "Well, we always knew it'd happen some day." Only this wasn't what anyone would have assumed was going on, not some place like Strikersville.

The dogs were circling around, howling and confused. The sun was almost set, and it was getting dark – they hadn't come prepared with lights, so Lee went back to the cars to get outfitted for a night search. Hickom, Gil Pender and Roundtree waited for him to return.

"Dogs lost the scent," Pender said. "They probably went in the water."

"Pretty damn stupid," Hickom said. "Female gators are real protective of their babies. They stay with 'em almost a full year. These yahoos could've been eaten alive."

Roundtree looked at Hickom, tired of the man's bloodthirst. "Yeah, maybe we'll hit pay dirt and they'll get killed that way."

Hickom was either ignoring or not understanding his sarcasm, because he gave a deep laugh.

"Nah, I still want to have at 'em. Me and Lee came up with a game about it. Fastest to empty our six shooters plus most hits wins."

Roundtree bit his tongue to keep from speaking out. Hickom was the type of man who'd shoot him during the search and call it an accident with his gun.

"They probably followed the water," Pender said. "Dunno for how long. We can follow along the shore, see if they came out anywhere."

"As soon as we get some lights," Roundtree said. The longer the search took, the better. He wondered if there would be any way he could find them on his own, but figured everyone would probably notice if he took off. Hickom and Lee were competitive, and just stupid enough to think he would take off on his own to find them to get all the glory, since that's exactly why they'd do it.

No, the best he could do is keep them slowed down and held up and away from the east side of the river. He feared that Hickom and Lee would try to make their way to the Landry cabin, just to see if Josie was there.

On one hand, he didn't think they'd all come out of this alive. He saw the look in Josie Landry's eyes when she said she'd shoot them, and she wasn't kidding. Hickom and Lee would step onto her property and be dead a few seconds later. It would solve a lot of his problems, but bring new ones to her, and she didn't deserve that.

Jean-Rene didn't trust cops, but he'd told him where he thought these kids would go. They wouldn't stay on this side of the river - even Roundtree could see that now. These kids took risks and played against the house. They'd cross, go to the east side, and soon Hickom and Lee would figure that out. Or at least want to take a side trip. He couldn't let that happen. Maybe, if he could play it right, he could protect Josie and get those stupid kids out of the bayou alive too.

It was about time the Landry's learned they could trust someone in uniform.

XXXX

They had been moving through the bayou on the east side for at least an hour or so. There was still water on their left, but somehow it felt like they weren't on the river any longer, and Tim suspected they were actually following another branch of it, a creek or something.

It was hard travelling, not only because of the chain getting held up on all the roots and bushes, but because it was so dark through the woods they couldn't see more than a few feet in front of them.

The light was getting a little better toward the watery areas, where the moonlight could shine down, but Tim didn't want to risk being spotted moving along the shore by anyone.

That was another risk. These cabins could be full of people, and he didn't know how they'd react to two prison escapees. From what he could see in town, no one seemed to have a problem with the sheriff and there was a good chance no one had a clue what was going on in the prison. They'd probably be shot on sight. So even if they came upon a cabin, there was a chance they'd have to move past it to the next one and find one unoccupied.

He heard Dally curse a few feet ahead of him, then heard the sounds of him stumbling again.

"Watch it, Dal," Tim said, sick and tired of trying to make sure Dally didn't kill himself.

"I tripped over something."

Before he could get out another word, Tim felt his own feet tangle in something and almost fell over himself.

"What the hell is it?" He felt around and realized he was touching chicken wire. "I think it's all stringed up around here."

"Like a property line or something?"

"I dunno," Tim said. "If it is, we better keep quiet and try and see if there's a cabin around here. If there's people in it, we gotta move on."

"Yeah," Dally said. "No sense in getting our asses shot off for nothing, right?"

Tim hauled himself up and he and Dally stepped as carefully as they could through the bayou. He heard that weird huffing sound again.

"Sounds like a gator," Dally said.

"Yeah," Tim said. "Nearby, too."

At least it wasn't making that awful bellowing noise. They moved forward, and Tim noticed with some trepidation that the noise was getting louder.

"Let's move," he said. "Over to the water."

"Yeah," Dally echoed. As they moved to where they thought the water was, Tim heard rustling nearby.

"What was that?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Dally asked. "I think it came from over there."

It was dark. Tim closed his eyes, then opened them, hoping he could see better. He spotted something light, like a log from a birch tree, about five feet in front of them. A second later he heard a groaning noise.

"I think it's here," he whispered.

"You got a match?" Dallas asked.

"Soaked, remember?" Tim said.

They both moved forward a little. Tim thought the alligator might be on the other side of the log.

"Go around it," Tim said.

"You go around it!" Dallas insisted, his voice a sparse whisper.

Tim stepped forward, then past Dallas and toward the log. He couldn't see the outline of an alligator anywhere, but he could hear the weird breathing. The creature was definitely nearby. He kept his eye on the log, expecting the alligator to jump out and lunge at them from behind it. He was ready to grab Dallas and chuck him in its path.

He froze as he realized the log had just moved.

"Dally," Tim said, only two feet away from the moving log.

"What?"

"Don't move."

Dallas was silent for a second. Tim saw the log move again, and Dallas must have too.

"What the fuck?!"

Suddenly the log moved around to the side, and Tim saw that it wasn't a log, but a white alligator, his tail whipping behind him. Tim stumbled backward, fell into Dally, who pushed Tim off of him and tried to crawl away. The chain pulled at Tim's leg and he tried to move back into the mud as the log moved toward him.

"What the fuck is it?!" Dallas asked.

Tim scrambled back, pausing as the alligator stopped moving. It didn't seem all that interested in him as far as eating them went.

"I think it's an alligator."

"That thing ain't green."

"I think it's an albino." Tim had a thought and gave a harsh laugh. "It's kinda like the alligator version of you."

Dallas kicked him in the back.

"I'm serious man, you see it?"

As the alligator moved around slowly, Tim could better see the outline. It was definitely not a dark green or even a light green colour.

"Don't they stick out so much they'd get eaten?" Dallas asked.

"You'd figure." Tim watched as the gator paid no attention to them, skulking around the bushes and then moving toward the water. It walked right past them like it didn't even notice, then slunk into the water.

"Come on, let's get the hell out of here before it works up an appetite."

They got up, shivering in the cold, and moved past the area where they'd first seen the gator.

A minute later Tim made out another shadow in the distance and stopped Dallas.

"Don't tell me there's another one."

"No … I think … I think it's an outhouse."

"What, here?"

Tim moved forward and felt around for a door knob or latch, and found one. He yanked the door open and found a flashlight hanging on a hook inside.

"Jackpot," he said.

"Only you'd say that about a shitter."

He flicked the flashlight on and then directed the bream right into Dally's eyes. The blond swore and rubbed his face.

"I get the picture, turn that thing off."

Tim shined it around the area, then moved down the path and shined the light toward the water's edge. He saw the alligator.

"I'll be damned," Dally said. "It really is white."

"An albino alligator," Tim echoed.

He shined the flashlight around some more and saw the makings of a fence.

"Dally," he said.

"What?"

"I think we walked into its pen."

XXXX

Tim looked around the perimeter, noticing they'd trampled over part of the fence on their way into the area. Just beyond the outhouse was more of the chicken wire fence.

"If that's a fence, then someone built it," Dally said. "Come on."

He yanked on the chain with his foot and Tim followed along, shining the light along the ground. They stepped over the fence and realized they were following a pretty well-worn path. A second later Tim almost whooped in excitement as the light shined up on a cabin, built up on stilts.

There were no lights on, but Tim turned off the flashlight anyway.

There were a few stairs leading up to a warped porch, and just to the left of the cabin was a makeshift dock, but no boat. Tim cursed. A boat would've been the perfect thing to get them out of here.

He and Dally moved up the stairs as quietly as they could.

The place looked abandoned. There were old fishing nets hanging from the rafters on the porch, and he saw curtains with holes in them on the windows. He pressed the edges of his hands to the window and looked inside.

There were very few pieces of furniture – an old worn couch, a table and what looked like a desk with no chair. He could see beyond to a small kitchen with maybe a chair and table, then another room to the right. There was no sign of anyone.

"We need to look in the other windows," Dally said.

"How?" Tim asked. "They're up on stilts and we ain't seven feet tall."

It's not like they could boost each other up with the chains on either.

"You wanna risk it?"

"Try knocking," Dallas said, reaching forward and knocking loudly.

Tim looked at him like he was crazy.

"You do realize if people are in there, they're gonna come out and see two people chained together wearing prison jumpsuits, right?" Tim asked. "Tell me how eager you'd be to help?"

"We ain't the fuzz," Dally said. "That should be enough."

No one had come to the door.

Tim reached forward and turned the knob, surprised to see the door swing open with a creak. Just like home.

He crept inside the door and looked for a light switch before realizing they were in the middle of nowhere and the house didn't even have indoor plumbing. Dallas came in behind him and shut the door.

"Search the place," Tim said. They each tried to go a separate direction before being yanked back together thanks to the chain.

"Find something to get this fucking thing off!" Dallas said. They went to the desk first, but nothing was inside but a few papers and cards.

The kitchen had a few knives in a drawer, but nothing thin enough to fit into the key lock to pop it open. There was a small closet in the living room, and all he found were a few towels and wash cloths.

"I need something thin, like a bobby pin or paperclip," Tim said. There was nothing there. The house smelled a bit musty and old and he wondered when someone had been here last.

He opened the door to the single room. There were two twin beds against a wall, made up with feminine quilts that didn't match anything else in the cabin. There was a homespun rag rug on the floor, and a three drawer dresser against another wall, but that was it. The drawers held nothing but clothes, and female ones from the looks of it.

They moved over to a small closet and opened it. Inside a paper bag Tim found a collection of men's clothes, including some jeans and flannel shirts. If they could ever get their cuffs off, they had some street clothes to wear.

Tim found an electric lantern and switched it on. The battery probably wouldn't last long. There were some other lanterns through the house, oil ones, and those he couldn't light without matches. They found a pack in the kitchen and lit a lantern.

Dallas then proceeded to dry off with one of the towels.

"No shower?" he asked.

"Don't look like it," Tim said. "Anyhow, I ain't in the mood to shower with you."

"Fuck off," Dally said. "I meant after we get the cuffs off. We ain't gonna be too obvious coming out of here smelling like shit or nothing, right?"

He had a point.

There was nothing he could use to pop the cuffs off. Maybe there was something outside, but in the dark they'd never find it.

Dally pulled him toward the kitchen and picked out a knife, then began to cut off the jumpsuit.

"What the hell are you doing?" Tim asked.

Dally got the jumpsuit off one leg, then the other leg ended up trapped on the chain.

"You cut that thing up, now you got nothing to wear."

"I don't fucking give a shit. I'm not wearing that damn jumpsuit anymore."

Dallas took the knife and slit up the side of the jumpsuit, opening it up so it fell right off the chain. He stood there, chained to Tim in his underwear.

"Yeah," Tim said. "You're not gonna stand out in public at all."

"Fuck public," Dally said. "I'm sick and tired of being wet. I can figure out a way to get some of those clothes on later."

"You're unbelievable."

"We're gonna get this thing off anyway, right?" Dally said. He started picking at the lock with the knife. He looked around. "No clocks in here."

"It's probably close to nine at night."

"You think anyone lives here?"

"Clothes say so, but there's not much food in the icebox or the cupboards," Tim said. "Maybe it's a hunting cabin or something."

Tim sat down in one of the chairs and took off his shoes. He squeezed the water out of his socks and onto the floor boards. His feet were wrinkled and blistered.

Tim rolled up the cuff of the jumpsuit and saw his ankle was raw and bleeding, swollen from the shackle. If this got infected he was a goner.

He wrung out the white undershirt, which was now a muddy and dingy grey, then dried off with a towel. He didn't relish spending the night wet.

"We can move those twin beds closer and each of us has a bed," Dallas said. "You can take off that jumpsuit, let it rest on the chain so you ain't soaked all night if you don't wanna cut it off."

"Yeah."

Tim suddenly felt so bone tired he didn't think he could move. All the adrenaline was fading from his system and making him feel exhausted.

He forced himself to get up and move into the bedroom with Dallas, shoving the beds closer together. Tim did slip out of the jumpsuit, then tried to dry off his underwear as much as possible before lying down on the bed.

It felt better than anything he'd rested his head on in months.

He closed his eyes and heard the noises from outside – frogs were croaking, crickets chirped, an owl hooted. He even thought he heard the sound of the alligator moving around on the bank of the river.

He took a deep breath and fell into a deep sleep.

XXXX

There was yelling, pain at his ankle and someone screaming at someone not to shoot.

Tim's eyes flew open, and for a moment, he had no idea where he was.

It all came flooding back a moment later, and he thought the police had caught up to him, they'd found them and now they were going back to that prison hell hole.

"Don't shoot!" Dallas was bellowing. "Put the fucking gun down!"

Tim blinked. A flashlight was shining right at him and he got up from the bed, an arm across his eyes.

"Do not move, cher, or I'll shoot," a female voice said. She had a thick Cajun accent. "It's a twelve gauge shotgun, I can hit you both where you stand."

"You ain't the cops," Tim said.

"I'm no such thing," she said. "Get up! Get out of here!"

"Hold on, now," Tim said, lowering his voice. "Hold on. I think we can talk about this."

She pumped the shotgun.

"I don't think she wants to talk, man," Dallas said, his own voice low.

"You've got that right," the girl said.

"We don't want trouble," Tim said. He moved forward, and the chain, his clothes still hanging on it, scraped across the floor.

She shone the light down.

"You were at Strikersville," she said, her voice flat. "You escaped."

"Yeah," Tim said. "Yeah, we did. We were working on the chain gang they got at the bridge, you know it?"

She nodded.

"There was an explosion. We took advantage."

"You crossed the river, then? In the dark?"

Tim nodded.

"Stupid, the both of you."

Her breathing was less shallow, and the light seemed to waver a little.

"You know what's going on up there, don't you?"

"I suspect a lot." The light moved from him to Dallas and back again. "Where's your clothes?"

"He's a fucking moron and cut them off before we could get the shackle off. I'm just trying to dry mine out is all."

"Fuck you, Shepard."

Tim moved forward a little more, holding his hands up in the air.

"We don't want no trouble. Just a place to lay over for a few hours. Just a way to get the shackle off."

"Yeah, then I'm out of here and off of you," Dallas said.

"Same here," Tim told him. He turned his attention back to the girl. "What's your name?"

"You don't get to ask the questions. What's yours?"

"Tim. This is Dallas."

"What are you doing in my house? You always break in to peoples' houses?"

"Not on the regular," Tim said. "The door was unlocked. We had a run in with a gator outside, thought it best to stay out of the bayou in the dark."

The gun had lowered a little. He couldn't see much of her face.

"That's Gummy," she said. "He's mine."

"The gator?" Dallas asked.

"He has to be hers," Tim said. "Albino."

"Yeah," she said. "Albo gators usually die in the wild - no camouflage. I took him from the nest when he was small. Mother didn't want anything to do with him. He has a pen here."

"Chicken wire?" Tim asked sharply.

"Yeah?"

"It's broken down in one place. Dunno if by us or not."

"It wasn't us," Dallas said, a bit defensively. "The chicken wire was down, it's what I tripped on."

"Where?" she asked, lowering the gun.

Tim considered leaping toward her and grabbing the shotgun, but somehow he figured she'd beat him to it by shooting him, but he also didn't think he needed to try and get the weapon from her anymore. She seemed to be in the midst of deciding they weren't dangerous.

"You have to tell me where," she said. "He stays in the water pen at night, sometimes on shore, he won't wander far until the sun is up."

"We can do that," Tim said. "'Course, it'd be easier if I could move around without this giant barnacle attached to me. It'd also be nice if we could put some clothes on him so you wouldn't have to look at him."

Tim was trying to ignore the fact he was standing there in just a pair of Jockeys himself.

"Fuck you." Dallas had his arms crossed in front of him.

The girl lowered the weapon a little more. He heard a pop and hiss and a lantern was lit on the dresser. She lit another with the same match, and soon there was light.

She was about five foot four, with frizzy reddish blonde hair. He couldn't tell what colour her eyes were, but he could see the smattering of freckles across her face. She wore a western shirt tied up at her waist and a pair of denim shorts, frayed around the edges. He assumed they'd once been long jeans. He noticed she was barefoot. Maybe that's why he hadn't heard her.

"You never told us your name," Tim said.

"Josie," she said, hesitating a little. "Josie Landry."

"Tim Shepard. That there's Dallas Winston."

"You're not from around here," she said.

Tim gave a harsh laugh. "No, not from around here. Tulsa, Oklahoma."

"How did you end up in Strikersville?"

"Bullshit charges created by your lovely sheriff," Dallas said.

Tim saw Josie's expression cloud over.

"He's lower than a snake's belly in the mud. I was half hoping it was him and his cronies in here so I could do what I promised and blow their heads off."

Tim raised an eyebrow. This girl had some fire … and a hatred for a common enemy. What was that quote he'd read once? The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

"Well, whatever beef you got with them is alright with me," Tim said.

She glanced at both of them, still wary, but not itching to shoot them, and that was an improvement. She had the gun pointing toward the ground now.

"We can show you where that break in the fence was."

"I can find it," she said. "Just tell me where."

Dallas tried to describe the area.

"Where exactly are we anyway?" Tim asked.

"You crossed the west arm of the Guidry," she said. "East arm dries up about five miles downstream of here. When it floods, this place is an island. We're about ten minutes by boat from the Atchafalaya."

"You have a boat?"

She nodded. "I went in to town for supplies earlier tonight, but the engine crapped out on the way back and I had to paddle. Happens all the time. Lots of things choke the engine up."

He wondered if her boat was the one that had passed them both in the river.

"Stay here," she said. She glanced at Dallas, probably figuring he wouldn't want to go anywhere without clothes anyway. "I'll fix the fence and come back."

She turned and left and Tim sat down on the bed, grabbing the prison jumpsuit. It was still soggy, but he pulled it on anyway.

"What do you think?" Dallas asked.

"I think she might be our best shot," Tim said.

* * *

**A/N:** So we finally meet Josie Landry, and lets hope she isn't in the mood to shoot or turn in our intrepid duo.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I'm just borrowing Dally and Tim for awhile so I can get them into trouble.

**Author's Note: **With thanks to MidoriCha for reminding me I update this thing on Saturdays now lol.

* * *

XXXX

**Chapter 10**

The dogs had picked up the scent again, but it ended near the river. The escapees had followed a creek downstream quite far, then the dogs picked up their scent on the shore again. Roundtree was feeling some trepidation. It was becoming more obvious to him that it was likely the prisoners had gone across the river. Soon Hickom, Lee, the sheriff and the warden would figure it out.

"How much farther is the first cabin?" he asked aloud.

"Just up the bend a little," Hickom said. He was an avid hunter, and Roundtree remembered there was some sort of gossip years ago about an accident of some kind, but he couldn't grab it in his mind.

Hickom spat a stream of tobacco onto the ground. "There's about six cabins down this branch, near the mangroves."

"We need to search them all," Roundtree said. "These boys aren't from around here. They aren't going to want to mess with gators and snakes. They're city boys."

He saw Hickom nodding slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, they ain't like us."

Lucky for them, he thought.

They trained their flashlights on a barely noticeable trail that led to the first cabin. Roundtree was pretty sure they weren't there, but he was no tracking expert. He could tell Lee was spotting things he wasn't – maybe broken branches or something. Lee was a good tracker and Hickom was a hunter – he had to hope he could distract them with enough possibilities to keep them from trusting their own instincts.

Roundtree's radio crackled.

"What's going on?" Sheriff MacGregor asked. "Any sign?"

"We're about to go search the first of the cabins here," Roundtree said into his radio.

"Keep me apprised," MacGregor told him. "Find them. Or I'll have your badges."

Roundtree turned down his radio and looked up at the heavens. He saw the tops of old oak trees reaching for the sky, and hundreds of stars. He could use some help on this one.

XXXX

Josie came back about ten minutes later. Tim could see her light bobbing around outside. He wondered how she didn't get eaten alive by the giant gator.

"I could really go for some clothes about now," Dallas said.

"I told you so." Tim couldn't resist.

He heard the door to the bedroom creak open.

"Just a small break. I think he ripped it down himself," she said. "He swings his tail a lot, hits a lot of things."

"He won't attack you?" Tim asked.

She shook her head. "I raised him since he was a baby. Gators aren't going to attack like people think. For the most part, they slink off into the water, they don't want to be bothered by you. Gummy's the same way."

"Why do you call him Gummy?" Dallas asked. "My guess is he's got plenty of teeth."

"Eighty," she said. "They use them for attack, but gators swallow their food whole. I call him that because he looked like a little piece of chewing gum when he was a youngin'."

"What do you feed him?" Tim asked.

"Oh, all kinds of stuff. Fish, chickens, mice, possum, rats," she said. "I figured you two would be more interested in this than my gator."

She held out a pair of bolt cutters.

"Hallelujah," Dallas said, grabbing for them. He cut the chain between them and finally Dallas and Tim were free. The shackle was still on his leg, but Dallas wasn't.

"You got no idea how you just saved his life," Tim said.

"Why's that, cher?"

"Because I would've killed him had we been chained together any longer."

Dallas held out a pair of jeans and Tim took them gratefully. He stripped off the cold jumpsuit and dried off with the towel.

"I'll start a fire," she said. "To dry your other things."

She left the room, and Tim stripped his underwear off, pulling the jeans on.

"Thank God for fire," Dallas muttered, buttoning the fly on a pair of jeans he'd pulled on. "These things are gonna chafe like a bitch until that shit dries."

Tim pulled a t-shirt over his head. It felt good to be in real clothes again.

Tim left the bedroom and went to the kitchen, where Josie was stoking a fire. She took his underwear wordlessly and laid it out on a rack nearby.

Tim went to the living room couch and sat down, happy to leave Dallas in another room for the first time in ages. He was hoping the swelling would go down and then he could try at getting the shackle off his ankle.

"You found my brother's clothes," she said.

"Yeah, I guess so," Tim said. "Where is he?"

"Strikersville."

"What's his name?"

"Jean-Rene," she said. "MacGregor threw him in there because he beat up a police officer."

"Good on Jean-Rene, then," Tim said.

"The deputy deserved it," she said bitterly. "They all deserve it."

"I ain't arguing," Tim said. "Don't much care why you hate 'em so much either, just as long as you're not gonna pick up the phone and turn us in."

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," she said. "No electricity, no phone, no plumbing."

"No shower?" Dallas asked, coming out of the bedroom.

"There's one rigged outside," she said. "Collects rainwater. 'Course there hasn't been none for awhile, so I use the river water."

Tim rolled the cuff of the jeans up on his leg and looked at his ankle, swollen around the shackle.

"It's been cut like that this whole time?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Shackle cut into my skin when numbnuts here fell down a hill."

"If I remember right, I ain't the one that fell."

"You're favouring your wrist too, cher," she said. "Escape hasn't been so easy, I see. It wasn't easy for the last that tried."

"You saw them too?" Dally asked.

"Three men," she said. "They came by here, but I told them to move on, I knew the sheriff would come looking. They escaped from the main prison. This is one of the first cabins you reach if you escape from there, so I knew they'd come looking and I sent them on."

"Did they come looking?" Tim asked.

Josie looked at him, something hard and angry in her eyes. "Oh yes, they came looking."

He wondered what they'd found. A girl alone in a cabin … he wouldn't put it past any of them. Except for one.

"There was one cop. Blond, kinda square. Seemed pretty resigned this was happening, like he knew it was all wrong."

"Paul Roundtree," she said. "He's as bad as they are, because he won't do anything about it. He's a lapdog like the rest of them."

"The town's gotta know something's up," Tim said.

"Really?" Josie asked. "They're blind, and they don't want to see. They live in their nice houses on their nice streets and they go to town picnics and they don't care. They think the sheriff does a wonderful job arresting all these awful people, and the warden is there making sure they don't get out and ruin everything for all those nice people. They think all of us that live in the bayou are criminals, when they elected the criminals in the first place."

"Doesn't sound much different from anywhere," Dallas said with contempt.

"We need a way out of here," Tim said. "You got any ideas?"

Josie looked around. "They'll come looking here. Probably by morning or afternoon tomorrow. Longer if Roundtree is with them."

"Why longer with him?"

She shrugged. "I think he'll try and keep them on the other side of the river. Was my brother on your chain gang?"

"Don't remember no Jean-Rene," Tim said.

"Jean-Rene?" Dallas asked. "Johnny Ray."

Tim looked over at Josie for confirmation.

"It could be what they call him in there, I don't know," she said. "Here."

She got up and searched the bottom drawer of the desk, coming up with a faded picture.

"It's a little old."

She handed it to Tim.

"I'll be damned," he murmured.

"It's him? You know him?" she asked eagerly.

"Yeah," Tim said. "He was the one that told me where all the cabins were on the other side. He didn't say nothing about this side. In fact, he wanted us to stay pretty far away from here."

Tim looked at Josie, remembering what Johnny Ray – Jean-Rene – had said.

"He told me he wasn't going to tell me about the cabin the cops searched first and found the guys last time. He meant this side of the river, wouldn't tell me about them. I thought maybe he was keeping a hiding place to himself."

"He was," Dallas said.

Tim looked over at Josie. "He was trying to protect you."

"What brother wouldn't keep prison escapees away from his sister, right, cher?" she asked.

"No," Tim said. "I don't think it was us he was protecting you from."

Josie turned away and went to the porch. She opened the door and came in with two paper bags of groceries. She put them away in an ice box and Tim figured she was done with that conversation.

He felt his leg, wincing as his fingers touched the wound. It looked angry and red.

"Well, if you can't walk on it, I'm out of here," Dallas said with a grin.

"Fuck off," Tim said. "It's fine, just a bit sore. It's all your fault anyway."

"How's that?"

"You were the one who kept yanking the damn chain so hard it broke the skin."

"You went in the river with it like that?" Josie asked.

"And the creek. And the mud," Tim answered.

She approached him and sat down on the coffee table and eyed the wound.

"It looks infected," she said matter-of-factly.

"Tough shit, Shepard," Dallas said.

"Hush," Josie said. "I'll need to clean it out. I have some remedies. You stay there."

XXXX

Dallas was bored.

He supposed it was from coming off all the adrenaline of running, but he was tired, bored and keyed up, all at the same time. He wanted to run some more, but he wasn't so eager to get outside in the dark with all those lizards.

The girl went into the kitchen, rummaging around in cupboards and Dallas had no idea what she was up to.

"You got any smokes?" Dallas asked.

"I don't smoke," she said. "Jean-Rene does, or maybe he did, I don't know now. He may have some lying around. Try the desk."

Dallas managed to find a broken Pall Mall and a pristine Lucky Strike. He gave Tim the broken one.

"So you're brother's in the joint for a legit reason, huh?"

"Depends on who you ask," she said. Dallas could hear her banging and mashing things together, and she filled up a kettle and put it on a wood stove sitting in the kitchen. He wondered if she was putting something together for Tim.

It kind of burned him that she wasn't paying a lick of attention to him. Tim had talked to her like an injured kitten when she had the gun on him, and since he'd talked her out of shooting them, she seemed to be directing all her questions at Tim, like he was in charge of Dallas or something.

"What's that mean, 'depends on who you ask?'" Dallas said. "You said he beat up a cop, did he or didn't he?"

"Drop it, Dallas," Tim said, his voice low.

Dally looked over at him, irritated, and went into the kitchen. Shepard had his foot up on the table and instructions to stay put, and for some reason, Dallas knew he'd do it. Maybe it was the way Shepard was cradling his arm. Dallas had noticed it was in pretty bad shape too. Shepard always was a pain in the ass, but if he was going to slow things down, both of them would be back in that prison in no time.

"Come on, did he do it or not?" Dallas asked, moving into the kitchen more. She was mashing up some kind of herb.

"Yeah, he did. Beat up Charlie Hickom so bad he didn't wake up for two days."

"What'd he do that for?" Dallas asked. He was leaning against the door frame, watching her. She had more lanterns lit in the kitchen, and he could see her a little better.

She wasn't exactly pretty, but she didn't look like anyone else he'd ever seen. Her hair was curly and wild, like she rarely dragged a comb through it. Her lips were full and pursed, like she was always evaluating what someone said and found it all to be bullshit.

She had long dark lashes though, and the way they swept toward the ground whenever she was being evasive was taking Dally for a ride. Her eyes were a light blue, and he could tell she had freckles. She had a thick Cajun accent, but looked like an Irish girl.

She hadn't answered his question.

"I said, what'd he beat the cop up for?" Dallas asked.

"Drop it, Dally," Tim said again from the other room.

"You should listen to your friend," she said.

"He ain't my friend," Dally said, sauntering further into the kitchen. She had stoked the wood stove full of wood and flames crackled brightly in it, the air in the room warm. Their underwear was drying on a rack near the fire. He still couldn't figure out what she was doing with all the stuff on the counter.

He got closer to her. Despite her unkempt looks, he thought she smelled like lemon.

Her gaze darted over to him. She was looking out the side of her eyes. Her forehead was creased.

"You gonna answer the question or what?"

"If it ever becomes your business I will," she said. She was wrapping something up in cheesecloth.

He didn't like the fact she was avoiding the question. She could be lying to them both. Maybe she'd alerted the sheriff somehow when she'd gone outside to fix that damn pen. They hadn't come all this way to be traded to the sheriff easy as pie, and Shepard wasn't thinking. He trusted women too easily and that was his biggest mistake.

Dally reached out and took her by the wrist, aiming to turn her towards him and get her to talk.

Just as his hand closed around her wrist, she shoved him. He saw a flash of metal and leaned out of the way just as she slashed downward with the knife, narrowly missing the side of his head.

"What the fuck?!"

He grabbed for her, nicking his finger on the knife, but managing to grab one of her wrists. She tried to knee him in the groin, and he twisted her around to get hold of her.

Shepard had finally gotten off his ass and got into the fray, but Dallas wasn't prepared for what he did. He wrenched them both apart, then socked Dallas right in the jaw.

He stumbled back against the counter.

"What the fuck did you do that for? She was the one trying to knife me, if you hadn't noticed."

Shepard had an arm out, warding the girl off. She had the knife in her hand, the right way this time, and was breathing heavily, her eyes darting side to side, like she expected someone else to jump out of the shadows at any second.

"He's alright," Tim said, his voice low. "Don't worry about him."

"You got a fucking problem, Shepard," Dally said.

The girl was still holding the knife, jittery as hell. Shepard was trying to talk her down. If he knew any better he'd just knock her out and call it a day.

"You don't have to worry about him," Tim said. "He's not gonna hurt you. He's just got bad manners."

"Fuck you, Shepard."

Dallas was feeling wary as he watched her. Shepard was talking to her like a little kid, and keeping his voice low. Dally started to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It reminded him of the time he found Carolyn West holed up inside a closet at Buck's, her eye swollen. Rumours swirled around about her no-good father. She couldn't look Dallas in the eye, and wouldn't come out when he asked her what was wrong. He'd fetched Shepard from downstairs, and he'd swept her out of there like the building was on fire. She hadn't looked Dallas in the eye until that point, and when she finally did, he wished she hadn't. He'd never forgotten the look in Carolyn's eyes, and he was seeing it again in Josie.

"Just put the knife down," Shepard said to Josie.

She hesitated for a second before laying it on the counter. She began shaking.

"First thing in the morning, I'm outta here," Dally said, feeling sick. He couldn't do anything then and couldn't do anything now. All he wanted was to get home and out of the fucking jungle.

He picked the cigarette out from behind his ears, looked around for a pack of matches and headed for the front porch. He needed a smoke to settle his nerves.

XXXX

The cabin was empty. Roundtree was relieved.

There was no sign anyone had been here for awhile, and the dogs weren't getting any hits. Hickom was starting to get nervous and wanted to head back to the last place the dogs got a hit, but Roundtree was trying to keep him occupied.

"We may as well head up to the Tourgis place," he said. "You know Andre is always setting out traps, if he saw something it could help us out."

"He don't got a phone either, not like he could call it in," Lee said.

Roundtree nodded. His radio crackled.

"Gimme a sit rep." Roundtree was surprised to hear Warden Striker's voice instead of the Sheriff's.

Roundtree hesitated before hitting his radio. "Clear at the first cabin we checked. Heading on to the next, we know it's inhabited."

"Find those sons of bitches," the warden said. "No one escapes from my prison."

No, no one did. Roundtree suspected plenty of them left, but mostly went straight into the ground. He couldn't handle it if this went the same way. Somehow it was different – he'd dealt with these kids, seen their rap sheets, brought them their food – hell, he'd driven them right to the prison. He could've let them out anywhere along the way and let them find a way back to Oklahoma, but he'd taken them straight to the lion's den.

He had to make up for it somehow.

They pushed on through the bush, their flashlights cutting a swath through the swampy land. It took about twenty minutes to find the Tourgis place. He could hear a shortwave radio playing inside. Most of the bayou cabins didn't have electricity, and that worked for and against them. It meant that anyone who spotted an escapee had to have access to a radio, since there were no phone lines here, or travel to town to let someone know. All that time meant escapees could get further away. Usually that was a problem, but not tonight.

On the other hand, there was no way to warn Josie Landry. She had no radio, no television and no neighbours. She wouldn't have a clue a prison break had even taken place. If those kids showed up there, she'd probably kill them and anyone else who happened onto her property. If she had a phone, Roundtree could've called and told her to get to safety.

So many "if only's" and not enough results.

"Haven't seen a thing out here, I guarantee," Tourgis said. "Got my traps set, nothing set 'em off, not even possum."

Hickom searched inside, while Lee took the outbuildings, which included an outhouse and a shed.

Roundtree took the chance to figure out a plan. There were other cabins further on.

"Mr. Tourgis, if these prisoners bypassed your cabin, maybe because you were home, where do you think they'd go next?"

"There's a hunting blind," he said. "About twenty minutes due south. It's up higher ground, but big enough for four men. Built real solid. If it was me, I'd go there."

"What if you weren't experienced in the outdoors," Hickom said, joining them. "Where'd you go then? Cuz chances are these guys aren't gonna even be able to spot a hunting blind."

He thought for a moment. "Probably to the southwest. There's an abandoned cabin. You gotta take the crick to get there, big gator nesting area. If they took the crick, they'd come right up on it. It's got a boat even though no one live there."

"I think the hunting blind's a good bet," Roundtree lied. "These kids are smart, and I bet they'd ask the prisoners for some tips about where to go."

These guys wouldn't spend hours in the creek, and they'd have no way to get up there, but as long as Hickom wasn't putting that together, he didn't much care where they'd end up.

It was after ten, closing in on eleven. He figured if these guys were smart they'd hole up somewhere. The bayou was no place to travel through at night, even if you were a local. Even so, they'd have to start moving first thing in the morning. He hoped they knew what they were doing.

XXXX

Josie had put the knife down, but she was still trembling like a leaf. Dallas hadn't helped much by antagonizing her, and Tim was relieved when he heard the front screen door bang as he went to the front porch.

"He's gone now," Tim said, his voice low. "Nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried, cher," she said, her voice shaky and thin.

"I think you are," Tim said. "I think maybe you should sit down."

"I don't need to sit down, I'm just fine!"

He didn't push it. He tried another tack. "I got a sister myself. I woulda done the same thing as your brother."

She looked at him, then at the ground. "Y'all need to move on in the morning, or they'll find you here. They'll come looking."

"What about you?" Tim asked.

"I'll be ready for them."

"Are you sure?" Tim asked. "I mean, you were trying your hardest, but Dallas had one up on you. If these guys come, they'll be more than one of them, right? How can you fend them all off?"

She was still shaking, and he saw a tear work its way down her face. She brushed it away angrily.

"I have the shotgun. I'll kill them all if I have to."

She was shaking almost uncontrollably, and Tim moved near her. She almost collapsed as he braced her arm by holding it lightly. Tim stretched over and pulled one of the little wooden chairs over and she collapsed into it, silent sobs shaking her body.

"Why did you have to come here?" she cried miserably. "They're going to come back and they're going to do it again!"

He was quiet for a moment, watching this tough little chick breakdown. "Think of it this way. We hadn't of come here, you wouldn't even know they were out searching, right? They woulda taken you by surprise. Now you got the upper hand."

She looked up at him, her eyes rimmed red and bloodshot. She nodded slowly.

"Go sit down," she said, her voice hoarse. "Rest your leg. I'll have this ready soon."

He was about to tell her to stay put and calm down, but she was already up at the counter, making whatever she was making like nothing had happened.

Tim left her.

XXXX

Tim went out onto the front porch, striking a match on the door frame to light the mangled cigarette Dally had given him.

Dallas was sitting on an old chair, his bare feet up on the railing. The tip of his cigarette glowed in the dark.

"I think she was raped by those deputies last prison break," Tim said. "No, I don't think. I know it. You just freaked her out is all."

"I know it," Dallas said morosely. "Fucking cops."

"A girl living alone out here in a cabin and those sheriff's deputies come by. Sure as hell didn't tuck her in and read her a bedtime story."

Dallas snorted. Tim watched him, Dallas deep in thought.

Tim enjoyed his smoke for a few minutes, listening to all the strange noises in the bayou.

"Which ones do you think it was?" Dallas asked.

"She didn't seem to hate that Roundtree guy, my best guess is he wasn't involved. For all I know the sheriff himself could've done it."

"Nah," Dally said. "I bet he can't get it up."

Tim laughed. Dallas was probably right.

"They're gonna come here looking eventually."

"Yeah, well good for them," Dallas said. "We'll be long gone."

"They'll come here, and she'll be here."

"I think she can take care of herself. She'll probably blow their heads off the minute she sees them. She almost got me with that knife, man. They should be worried," Dallas said.

"It'll be her against them; I don't think she'll win."

Dallas took another drag, then paused and looked over at Tim.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

Tim shrugged. "I ain't saying anything."

"I sure as hell ain't sticking around here like the fucking Lone Ranger and Tonto," he said. "We're taking off first thing and getting the fuck outta here. I'm not playing protector to some broad who held a gun on me and tried to scalp me. Fuck that."

"We don't have to stick around here." Tim took a drag and blew a few smoke rings. "But I don't think she can stay here."

Dallas got up. "You're fucking crazy. We are not bringing her with us. No way."

"We ain't got a choice, Dallas."

"Fuck you, we do too got a choice, and I choose that she ain't coming."

"Yeah, well maybe you don't get to choose."

Dallas looked at him. "Then maybe I'm gonna head out on my own. I have a feeling I'll be outta here in no time while you drag Psycho Sally through the bayou. You're in trouble as it is, Shepard. Don't think I ain't noticed."

"Don't be an asshole, Dallas," Tim said. It wasn't like Dally to leave somebody high and dry like this. He always bragged how him and the Curtis boys stuck together, better than Tim's gang ever did. We'll, he was fucking pissing all over that now.

"You want to get nabbed because you got a soft spot for that crazy in there, fine. Don't drag me into it. I'll be outta your hair in the morning."

Dallas stubbed his cigarette out and went back into the house.

* * *

**A/N:** So Dallas wants to strike out on his own. Horrible bastard, totally understandable, good idea, what? And why now? What's up with ol' Dally?


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

* * *

XXXX

**Chapter 11**

When Tim came back inside, Josie told him to sit down and put his leg up. He did as he was told.

She came at him with the bolt cutters first, working them between his flesh and the metal, finally clipping off the shackle, which fell to the floor.

Dallas retreated to the bedroom with the bolt cutters after that to work on the shackle on his own leg, and Josie had shut the door on him.

"Sorry," Tim said nodding toward the door, "if he's stolen your bed."

"I'll stay on the couch. It's alright."

"He didn't mean nothing by it today."

"I know." She sat down on the coffee table and put a lantern nearby.

She lifted his leg up and placed it over a bowl, dousing his leg with clean water and washing out the wound.

When she was done, she dried his leg off, then brought out something steaming in another bowl.

"What's that?" he asked, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.

"Poultice," she said. "It'll help with the infection and the pain."

She unwrapped the cheesecloth and showed him the mash of what looked like herbs of some kind. She covered it with cheesecloth again, then wrapped the whole thing around his leg. It stung a little.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Bee balm."

"What's that?" It smelled sort of lemony.

"It's a plant," she said. "When it's dried it's good for an antiseptic and to help with wounds. Rest for a minute. I'm making a crawfish étouffée."

"What's that?"

"Crawfish simmered in a roux."

"What's a roux?"

She smiled. "You really aren't from around here, cher. A roux is a sauce. A dark one. Some onions and oil and flour. Crawfish simmers in it. Pour it over rice, c'est bon."

Tim grinned at her. "What's that mean?"

"It means it's good."

"I think anything'd be good right now."

She nodded. "It'll be ready soon. How's your leg?"

"Better."

He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was bone tired, and they weren't even close to being done yet. He rested, listening to sounds from the kitchen. He watched with half-open eyes as she took a bowl of food into the bedroom, then came back, shutting the door behind her. Maybe if Dallas got some food into him he'd wake up and smell the coffee.

They couldn't leave her here. Those cops would show up, and even if the square one was with them, the guy never stopped to help out him or Dallas, so Tim had no faith he'd stop anything that happened to her.

He opened her eyes when he heard her approach. She held out a chipped bowl to him. It was steaming and smelled great. Suddenly he was ravenous.

He hadn't ever had crawfish to his knowledge, but it was about the best thing he ever ate. She got him seconds before she'd even tucked in to her helping.

"They don't feed you much inside, do they, cher?" she asked.

"No," Tim said. "Morning meal and evening meal, that's it. Water on the chain gang. It ain't human. What they're doing out there ain't human."

He looked at her for a second.

"I got some papers with me you might wanna see," he said. He reached into the waist band of the jeans and pulled out the folded papers he'd rescued from the jumpsuit. Some of the ink had run on one of the handwritten statements he'd taken from the MacGregor file, but the other papers seemed to be okay. He unfolded them carefully – they were still damp and could easily rip.

"What are they?" she asked.

"This is a map of the prison grounds. These markings I've been trying to figure out," he said. "I thought it might be plans for expansion or something. Your warden's got a drug operation going in there."

"Doesn't surprise me," she said. "He is lower than low."

"I saw him, I think, shoot one of the prisoners one day. A guy that tried to escape. Can't prove it was him, I didn't get a good look. If it wasn't him, it was a guard. Only problem was, the guy wasn't running or nothing. He went out in a laundry truck, they caught him and brought him back. The guy was cuffed and he shot him point blank."

"I tried to write Jean-Rene best I could. He doesn't get the letters, does he?"

Tim shook his head. "Dunno. Not that he said."

"He sent me a few, but they stopped suddenly a few months ago."

Tim grimaced. "He mentioned it. Was sending them out on the laundry truck. Striker found out."

"What did he do?"

Tim hesitated.

"Tell me," she said. "It can't be any worse than what I imagine."

"Cigarette burns."

"Torture," she whispered. "It's all men like him know. I wish I could feed them all to the gators!"

"These might help you, then," Tim said.

He spread out the other sheets, some of the type faded from the water. She leaned over to try and read them, her fingers splayed out across the pages. She looked for awhile, and Tim realized she was having trouble reading.

"They're bank statements," he said. "Striker's been making regular payments to MacGregor. Over here, that one's a handwritten note from MacGregor."

"What does he say?"

She seemed to have no shame over the fact she couldn't read some of it.

"He says something about campaign contributions. What it says isn't important. What is important is getting it to somebody who can use it to blow all this wide open, you see what I mean?"

"Like a newspaper or a radio or television station?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "That's the best idea. Get it to someone who can't help but publish it. Someone in another town, even. You don't know who's in his pocket in Strikersville."

"It isn't so much in his pocket than who thinks Striker is a saviour. When he took over the prison, he expanded it, and hired a lot of locals to work as guards and in office positions. He saved the town."

"Now he's killing it." Tim was quiet for a moment. "You ever been to school?"

"Oh, a long time ago," she said. "My mother taught me at home for a long time. She died years ago."

"What happened?"

"A hunter shot her," she said. "We were picking berries. Poachers were trying to get gator."

"They mistook your mother for a gator?"

"You see the same problem I do," she said. "Nothing ever made sense."

"Where's your old man?"

"Prison, north of here. For good reason. When it comes down to it, I suppose Jean-Rene is there for good reason too. He's a good brother. He's eight years older, so he's very protective. You won't see anyone more protective, I guarantee."

He wasn't quite sure about that.

"We'll head out first thing in the morning," he said. He hesitated before speaking again. "You should come with us."

She raised an eyebrow. "What on earth for? I live here. Who would take care of this place? Of Gummy?"

"They'll come looking here eventually you know," Tim said. "Why be here when they do?"

"So I can kill them," she said. "I've been waiting for something like this. A chance. I can defend my property."

"You know as well as I do what'll happen," Tim said. "They'll shoot you down and paint it like it was all your fault, or they'll haul you in and you'll end up in a prison somewhere. Either way they win."

"Either way they'll be dead. No worries for me."

She didn't look likely to change her mind. When morning came, he didn't have a choice, he had to get out and get moving again, or they were going to end up right back where they started.

"Keep these," he said, leaving the papers with her. "Hide them somewhere, then use them when you can, especially if we don't make it out of here."

He held back the files on him and Dallas.

She nodded. "You should rest. It's late."

She took the poultice off his leg and bandaged it up. She glanced at his wrist.

"I think I sprained it when we fell," he said. "It ain't gonna kill me."

She nodded again, then stood up and took their dishes and things into the kitchen, filling a large metal tub with water to soak them. He had no idea how she could survive out here without running water or a shower, but she seemed to do okay.

He got up and walked toward the bedroom door.

"Goodnight," he said.

XXXX

Roundtree was out of ideas.

They had searched the hunting blind and another abandoned cabin after reaching it a half hour later. There was no sign anyone had been there in years. The boat tied up at the cabin had sunk, and the dock was so rotted it had given way when they stood on it and dumped all three of them into the creek.

It was dark, and everyone was soaked to the bone.

"We need to go back where the dogs last got a hit and regroup," Hickom said. "Those little bastards probably went across the river. They could have a whole day on us by now. We'll bring a boat in and go over."

Hickom tried his radio, but it wouldn't connect – the dunk in the river had fried all their radios.

"The river's too dangerous," Roundtree countered. "They'd be stupid to try it, and if I remember right, they're chained together. Those chains could drown them."

"I don't like that they're getting a lead on us chained together," Lee said. "How do you think that makes us look? We ain't chained together, and we can't even find them."

"Maybe they found somebody to take 'em outta here." Hickom said.

"Like who?" Lee asked. "Most folks around here shoot first and ask questions later."

Hickom was poking at the ground with a stick.

"Josie Landry might," he said.

Roundtree looked up, hoping the darkness concealed the panic on his face.

Lee laughed. "Woooo, that is one spitfire of a girl. Left scratches all down my back, I ever tell you that?"

Hickom joined in the laughter. "That little broad sure does hate us. She'd help them in a heartbeat if she knew they were coming her way."

"They wouldn't be that dumb to cross the river," Roundtree said, trying to steady his voice. "I'm thinking they went south, straight through the night, they're not stopping. They'd know we got dogs out, I bet they're in the creeks so they lose the scent. They could reach Bellefleur by morning, boost a car and be outta here."

"Man's got a point. Dogs haven't hit anything in awhile."

"Maybe cuz they went across the river," Hickom said. "We can call the sheriff, tell him to get some men down here to go south with the dogs. We can go across the river."

Roundtree was panicked.

"I'll go back and let the sheriff know," he said.

"We'll finish up here, meet you back at that bend in the river where the dogs lost the scent, we can all go over," Hickom said.

Roundtree nodded, unsure if the men could even tell that's what he was doing, and he turned and began the walk back toward the Tourgis place. As soon as he was out of sight of the cabin, he began to run through the bayou, not caring what was out there.

He had to reach the other side of the river first.

XXXX

Tim slept for an hour, maybe two, and was woken up by something – maybe Dallas snoring. Maybe it was the sound of everything out the window, frogs croaking, crickets chirping, the groan of that damn alligator.

Maybe it was the knowledge the sheriff was on his way.

He knew they were searching, he knew they weren't going to give up looking for them. He hoped they'd bring dogs with them – you could hear them before you saw them, and that gave them valuable time.

He saw a light move under the door, and heard the couch cushions creak.

He wouldn't be able to sleep the rest of the night. As soon as the sun started to rise, they needed to move.

He tossed the covers off and went to stand up, wincing at the pain in his ankle. He limped toward the door and opened it, glancing back at Dallas's sleeping form. That fucker could sleep through a tornado.

Josie was sitting on the couch, a blanket in her lap, and the shotgun on top of it. She glanced up when the door opened. He limped out and shut it behind him.

"Your leg," she said.

He shook his head. "Dunno what's wrong with it."

She cleared a place on the couch and he sat down, swinging his leg up onto the table. It hurt like hell.

She rolled up the pant leg. He'd slept in his jeans, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway in the night.

"Infection is coming out," she said. "Always gets worse before it gets better. I'll make another poultice. Plaintain, bee balm and lemon balm I think this time."

She went to work in the kitchen, stoking the fire in the small wood stove and preparing things. She reminded him of a witch or something, all she was missing was the pointy hat and cauldron.

She brought the warm poultice for his leg again, and he winced as she put it on.

"You may not be able to go far tomorrow," she said. "Will your friend leave without you? I heard him say he would."

"Ain't my friend. And yeah, he probably will."

"Why isn't he your friend? You must have been travelling together if you got thrown into Strikersville together."

"We were … doing a business deal. I needed someone with me, my right hand man's in jail in Oklahoma."

"What kind of business?" she asked, giving him the side eye.

He smiled. "The kind that's on the wrong side of the law. I run a gang back in Tulsa."

She pursed her lips. "Not like the gang of sheriff's deputies that run around here I hope."

"Nothing like it," Tim said. "I may be a hood, but I know how to treat a woman."

She smiled at that.

He noticed his leg felt a little better, even though the swelling was a bit worse, probably from the heat.

"Why did he come with you?"

"To be a pain in my ass, most likely," Tim said. He shrugged. "I trust him. The boys in my gang are too fucking stupid to be trusted with anything more than cracking a few heads together or making off with hubcaps. Some of them will get smarter with age, others ain't gonna be so lucky."

"And Dallas already has the brains you need?"

"He thinks he does," Tim said. "No … me and Dally, we're just cut from the same cloth is all. The boys he runs with aren't like me."

"I don't suppose many people are."

She still had her hands on the shotgun.

"You sleep with that thing every night?" he asked.

She smiled, but there was nothing happy or light about it. "Yes. I'm waiting. Always waiting."

"Hell of a way to live," he said.

"What else would you have me do, cher?" she asked. "I was caught once not ready for them, it won't happen again."

She got up as a kettle began to whistle and came back with a steaming cup of coffee, black. She handed it to him.

"How'd you know I take it black?" he asked.

"I can't imagine you with sweet coffee, cher."

He sipped it, burning his tongue on the first sip.

She resumed her place on the couch, the gun in her lap. Her coffee was light, more milk than coffee.

"How long ago were they here?" he asked.

"Almost a year," she said.

"Did you ever tell anybody?"

"Just Jean-Rene. You see how well that turned out."

"You didn't go to a hospital or nothing?"

"And say what, cher?" she asked. "Tell them two deputies raped me in my own house? Tell them the three prison escapees didn't scare me at all, but the police who live in my town do? No one would have believed me. No one would have done anything. Don't you understand? There is no one to tell."

She was probably right. He remembered seeing a few cops beat a greaser in one of the holding cells so bad they'd broken his jaw. He'd complained to high heaven, but not a soul ever listened. The cops all stuck up for each other.

"You should come with us," he said.

"I can't, I told you, cher," she said. "I've been waiting for this for a long time."

"It's not going to fix anything, Josie," he said seriously. "You blow holes in every one of them and turn them into gator chow, it's not going to make a lick of difference in how you feel. Maybe for a little while, but not for keeps. You'll still be hurting, your brother will still be in prison, and you'll be locked up with nothing but a lot of time to think over what happened. It's not going to fix anything."

"Running away with you, that will?" She looked over at him and pulled on her hair. "I was too scared then, and this time will be different."

"This time they can still hurt you. Don't give 'em the chance."

"It's funny a man like you is telling me to run."

"I ain't saying for keeps. Just come with us until we know it's safe."

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "You only want me to come to show you the way out of here, get you somewhere safe, save your own ass."

"The thought had occurred to me."

"You're just as bad as they are."

"Hey," he said, his voice sharp. "That ain't a comparison I think is fair or right. Fact is, we'll find our way out of here with or without you. It'll be faster with you. But I ain't the one headed here with bad thoughts on my mind. I'm not the one you gotta worry about."

She turned and looked straight ahead, almost caressing the gun.

"Josie, don't let them beat you like this."

"Go to bed, Tim," she said wearily. "The sun will be up in an hour or two. You'll need to be rested when you leave."

She got up and took the poultice off his leg. He stared after her for a minute, then limped back to the bed. He stared at the ceiling until the sun began to rise.

XXXX

Dallas woke up to the sound of some kind of bird screeching outside. He'd slept okay - better than crashing out in the lot or on those rickety beds at Buck's - but a part of his brain hadn't let him sleep too deeply, in case they had to run.

He looked over at the other bed and Shepard was curled up like a little kid. He knew Shepard wasn't going to drop it about taking the chick with them.

Personally, Dally thought she'd do just fine on her own. She was ornery, like the stallion Buck had brought back after selling his own mount and not even telling him. He could see she'd probably blow those cops' heads off the minute they got close.

Even if the cops got the jump on her, she wouldn't let them leave this place still breathing. She'd be just fine on her own.

Shepard was going to be the problem. He could see plain as day he was in bad shape, but like the asshole he was, he was playing it off like it was nothing. They'd get into the brush and Shepard would start to slow and keep them both from getting away. They'd be killed or thrown back into that prison and never see the light of day again. He was a selfish bastard.

Shepard couldn't admit he was toast, and that was going to screw them both over. It was just like back in New York when Tommy O'Halloran had gotten shot after they robbed a Puerto Rican bodega. He'd told Dally it'd be a big score, and they walked away with under thirty bucks.

Martinez had shot Tommy right in the leg too, and Dally had to drag him through the streets. He kept waiting and waiting for Tommy to see the truth - they'd both get pinched if he didn't give it up and let Dally go. Tommy was mobbed up with some of Coonan's boys, and Dally didn't have to think twice about sticking with Tommy. Coonan was a bastard and would slit his throat easy if he left Tommy in the gutter.

But Tommy was older, he knew the score, and anyone with half a brain would've told Dallas to take off and save himself. You got a lot of respect when you'd take the rap for something and let your buddy take off; it was expected. The weakest link in the chain always knew it and did right. Only Tommy kept his mouth shut, Dallas stayed with him and they both got pinched by the cops.

He spent six months in a hell hole reformatory for wayward boys because of it, then his mother packed him off to his father. What was supposed to have been six months away from New York had turned into three years. He wasn't pissed about it now, but back then he could've spit nails. All because Tommy O'Halloran didn't want to get pinched alone. If Tommy'd let him go, he could've found a way to get him help and keep them both out of the reformatories. Didn't work out so good for Tommy either way. Coonan's boys had dumped him in the river a few weeks later anyway, for violating some kind of agreement with the Puerto Ricans.

Dallas tossed back the covers. Josie had left their now-dry underwear on the dresser, and he pulled his on, then the borrowed jeans and t-shirt. It looked like the sun had just started to rise, and he could better see what was around the cabin. It looked like she'd been telling the truth about no phones or anything.

He opened the bedroom door and saw Josie asleep on the couch, a shotgun next to her.

"Hey," he said. "You awake?"

He hung back near the door, watching her stir and a little afraid she'd go bonkers and fire the gun.

"I'm awake," she said, struggling to sit up. She lay the gun across the coffee table. "I can make coffee. Before you go."

He nodded. He'd need something to keep him awake. "Food too, if you got it."

She nodded and went into the kitchen, and he sat down on the couch.

His entire body was aching. He felt stiffness in his muscles that was different from the stiffness he'd felt working on the chain gang. They'd used so many other muscles running he felt like there were ones he didn't even know about hurting.

His thigh was badly bruised on one side and his own ankle was chaffed from the shackle, but overall he couldn't complain.

He got up and wandered into the small kitchen, watching her set the kettle down on the woodstove. She made him nervous. He had no idea what to say to her.

"You always live out here?"

She nodded. "Was born here."

She worked efficiently, never looking back at him. He needed her to look at him.

He got in her way when she moved to the woodstove. She looked up at him, her eyes large and untrusting. He made sure not to touch her, afraid of what her eyes would say if he did.

"Didn't mean anything by it."

She looked at him, sizing him up. The corner of her mouth quirked up - he couldn't really call it a smile. "I know."

He nodded at her, then moved out of her way. Something about her odd smile reminded him of Johnny suddenly, and it made him angry.

"You should stick together," she said. "It's your best chance."

Dallas snorted. "If one of us gets out of here, the other has a chance. If he slows me down, we'll both be caught. No good in that. It'll be harder for them to track two of us apart."

He left out the part where he knew Tim would drag _her_ along, and he couldn't stand to look at her. He didn't want to risk that thing - that look in her eyes - chasing him all the way out of the bayou. It took him long enough to forget Carolyn's eyes that day.

He wandered back to the living room.

The bedroom door creaked open and Shepard limped out. Dallas noticed right away, although it looked like Shepard was trying to hide it.

"Don't tell me you're crippled," Dallas said. "Because if you are, we're definitely going our separate ways."

"What time is it?" Shepard asked, ignoring Dallas.

"Five-thirty," Josie said. "It'll be light enough for you to move in an hour. For now, stay indoors."

"We really gotta move," Tim said. "I can feel they're coming."

"I ain't going nowhere with you until I see what's up with your leg. I can see you limping, Shepard," Dallas said.

"It's nothing."

Dallas looked at Josie who just shrugged and went back to the kitchen.

Shepard sat down on the couch.

"I ain't kidding," Dallas said. "If you can't move, then you're the thing that's gonna get us caught. The dogs'll be on you in a hot second. If I can get out of here, I can get you out."

"Right, because you're gonna come back and tear that prison apart to find me?" Tim asked. "Fat chance."

Dallas grabbed for Tim's leg.

"You wanna keep your hands to yourself?" Shepard asked. "Fuck."

Tim rolled up the cuff of his jeans and Dallas cringed. The skin was swollen and an angry red. The shackles had rubbed his skin raw and the wound was oozing.

"It's fine."

"It's probably gangrene," Dallas said.

"Fuck you."

"It's not gangrene," Josie said. "But he needs to be careful. He needs to stay out of the water."

"No can do," Tim said. "We gotta get outta here. If they bring the dogs to this side, we're fucked. Staying in the water's the best way to avoid them."

"Best way to meet a gator, too," Josie said.

"Which is why you could be of help to us," Shepard said. "You know this place, it'll be faster with you."

Dallas took the cup of coffee Josie offered, and took a bite of buttered bread she'd brought. He drank his coffee with a bunch of sugar, but he didn't enjoy it. Josie hadn't responded to Tim's offer either way, and that was the only hope he had.

Shepard was going to fuck everything up. First he convinced him to run off the chain gang when working for Striker would've been the better deal, and now Shepard was crippled and barely able to walk. He was going to screw up everything for them. There wasn't a chance in hell Dallas was going to walk through a Louisiana bayou with Tim Shepard on his back. They'd both be back in that prison in no time. He had to make it out first. He had to make it out alone. She was _not_ coming with them.

"You can't even walk," Dallas said. He finished the last of his coffee. "You're gonna slow me down."

"Your brain slows you down," Tim said. "We gotta stick together. It's the only way we're gonna get out of this."

He was staring at the girl when he said it. Trust Tim to be thinking about playing rescuer to some girl when they had a posse on their tails. He needed to focus on the fact he was a liability, and bringing her along was going to make things worse.

"If we stick together, we're gonna get caught," Dallas said. "It's better if at least one of us makes it back. I can get out, find a car."

"Then what?" Shepard asked. "You wait until they round me up and wave as the prison bus goes by?"

Dallas wanted to punch Shepard right in the face. "No, you asshole, I'd run the bus off the road, something. Haul you into the car and take off. Free shot home."

"Right, just like cattle rustling in Dodge City," Shepard said with a sneer. "You ain't gonna pull shit like that off. Fuck, Dally, we need to stick together."

Dallas was pacing and nervous. There was no way in hell he was telling Shepard the broad creeped him out. If the asshole would just drop the Lone Ranger routine, then maybe he could stand trying to help Shepard through the bayou, injured as he was. They might not have to go their separate ways. The girl would shoot those deputies, and they'd be home free.

"So that's it, huh?" Tim asked. "You're gonna leave me here?"

"I don't got a choice, you're fucking lame, and I can't drag you through the bayou. I told you how things were. You could've changed your mind."

"You can't even swim!" Tim countered. "You'll drown before you get two feet into the water."

"Fuck you! I ain't sticking around here while you try and convince me you're not a liability." Dallas looked over at Josie. "We don't need another shackle trapping us here. I'll see you in Tulsa, Shepard."

Dallas got up and headed to the door, letting the screen bang loudly. He was angry at Shepard. They didn't need to be dragging the girl through the bayou. They needed to get the hell out of here, and Shepard was all about playing Lone Ranger. It was just like New York. Fucking pussy.

Dallas took the path to the right and stalked through the bayou, aiming to make it out of there before noon. Shepard and the chick could fend for themselves.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay who's got bets on whether Dallas will make it out on his own? Was he a jerk? Doing the right thing? Right thing for the wrong reasons? And for that matter, what about Tim? Is he going to make it out without Dallas to help him?


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders and the characters in its hallowed pages. I own the ones you see here that you don't recognize from the book. Although some of them are real bastards lol.

**Author's Note:** With thanks to Artemis Rex for her Cajun knowledge.

* * *

****XXXX

**Chapter 12**

The sheriff was pacing at the entrance to the woods where they'd set up a command centre of sorts. He hated coming out in the swamp during the night. It was a pain in the ass conducting a search in there anytime of day, but the night was the worst. Pender had his stupid dogs resting – he treated those dogs better than he did his own family – and he was getting impatient.

Striker was on his ass every five minutes, asking him why the hell no progress had been made, and where the fuck were those punk kids?

He'd sure like to know where his deputies were. He couldn't raise them on his radio. He didn't think anything had happened to them – those punk kids weren't strong enough to take out three sheriff's deputies, but things in the bayou were unpredictable. Someone could've been hurt or injured, the equipment could be down, or they could be in the midst of a major chase through the woods.

Either that or an alligator got 'em.

He sighed, looking up at the lightening sky. Striker was pissed they didn't have them in custody. How two men chained together could outrun and hide from an entire search group was beyond him.

Striker suddenly appeared, manoeuvring around an oak tree.

"Any word?"

"Nothing yet."

"It's been 'nothing yet' for the past four hours," Striker said. "I need these guys captured, and I need it now."

He lit a cigarette and puffed out smoke for a few minutes. MacGregor hated it when the man went to cigarettes. A cigar-smoking Striker was one that was more easily placated. The cigarette smoking version was a bundle of nerves and anger.

"You get these guys," Striker said. "I don't care if you take an M-16 and mow 'em down in the middle of the bayou. I want their heads on sticks!"

"We'll find 'em," MacGregor said. "No need to get so excited. They're just like any other escapees."

"No, MacGregor, they're not," Striker growled, moving closer. "One of them – I think the Shepard kid – was left alone in my office. I went over the tape recordings the other day, and it sounds like he searched my desk. So I checked and he took some files. You wanna know what? The one with your name on it. That kid ran off from my prison, and he's got fucking insurance. You know what that means?"

It meant that kid could bury him. MacGregor shifted his weight, feeling like his duty gun and belt were going to weigh him right down into the center of the earth.

"It means we gotta find them kids," he said, his voice low.

"They get out of this bayou alive, and we're gonna lose everything," Striker said. "Everything."

MacGregor got on his radio again, but there was no answer. A moment later he spotted Hickom and Lee walking toward them.

"Where the hell have you been and why aren't you answering your radios?"

"We got dumped into the crick back past the Tourgis place," Lee said. "Shorted out the radios. We couldn't radio back, but Roundtree said he'd let you know."

"When? He hasn't been back," MacGregor said.

MacGregor caught the look Hickom and Lee shared.

"We sent him back hours ago," Hickom said. "He said he was coming back here to let you know we didn't find nothing at the Tourgis place or the abandoned cabin, then we were meeting up to go across the river. We waited on him and decided to hike back here and see what the hold up was."

"He never showed up," MacGregor said.

He sighed and looked at the trees, wondering what the hell Paul Roundtree was up to.

"Where would he have gone?" MacGregor finally asked. "Maybe he found some kind of a clue and took off after them."

"He probably went across the river," Lee said. "I bet you anything he wanted to go over there and get all the glory for himself."

XXXX

"He's such a stupid son of a bitch," Tim said, watching the door after Dally left. He took the cup of coffee Josie offered.

"I scare him," Josie said, her eyes focused on the door, her expression understanding.

"Dally's faced things a hell of a lot scarier than a redhead with a shotgun."

He looked at Josie's face, her expression odd. He was reminded of sitting down under the overpass near the highway one night, Carolyn asleep on a sleeping bag he'd brought from home. Dallas had found her at Buck's and didn't speak to him for two weeks after that. Dally never talked to Carolyn anymore, and Tim never knew why until now. His stomach felt like a stone as the realization washed over him.

"He doesn't know what to say," she told him. "I see in his eyes he feels ..."

"Yeah," Tim said, cutting her off. Powerless, angry, sick. He knew it. He didn't know why Dallas couldn't face it, and he wasn't going to try and figure it out.

"What are you going to do?" Josie asked. She sat down on the edge of the coffee table and handed him a thick slice of buttered bread.

He shook his head. "Don't know yet. Guess I'm on my own, unless you come with me. I'll move east – where'll that take me?"

"When you crossed the river over here, you followed the water, right?" she asked, waiting for his nod of agreement. "I told you before, this side is like an island when it floods. The east arm ends a bit down the river this time of year. You follow the east side of this place, you have two choices - cross the dry creek and go into the Atchaflaya or go back across the west arm. There's not a lot of cover there. That's the bad news. The good is that going back over the west arm when you're that far down gets you close to roads which can take you out of here."

"But no chance to find a car."

"No," she said. "Likely not. I'm not sure anyone would stop to pick you up, either."

He smiled ruefully. Well, she was probably right about that. He didn't look like the most easygoing hitchhiker a person could pick up. "What about going back the other way? Crossing back over the river here and going down that side?"

"You'll run into them I suspect, cher."

"What's that mean, anyway? Sha?"

"Cher is a Cajun word, from French, cherie. It's a term of endearment, like honey or sweetie."

Tim huffed out a breath, laughing a little. "Been a long time since I've been called anything like that."

"Too bad for you," she said, the hint of a smile on her face.

In the light, he could see her hair was a wild mess of copper curls and tangled knots. She had freckles covering her nose and cheeks, but clear skin otherwise. She still had bare feet, the soles dirty, and Tim wondered if she even owed a pair of shoes.

"You're staring," she said.

"How long have you lived out here?" Tim asked.

"Always," she said.

"How long did you stay in school for? You said you went."

"When I was small," she said. "The kids in town, they don't like those of us that live out in the bayou – swamp kids they call us. They teased us in school. I didn't do so well in class. I can't stay still long enough for anything to reach my head. I'm smart – my mother said so, she taught me and Jean-Rene at home before she died. I'm not stupid, even if I didn't go to high school."

"Never said you were," Tim said. "I made it through, barely."

"Really?"

"I know you figure someone with my high intellect probably graduated top of the class, but you'd be wrong." Not for lack of some people trying, anyway.

She stifled a smile.

"I like it out here," she said. "I don't like the town. The town is full of poisonous people. The bayou is just filled with gators and snakes. They're easier."

"Amen to that," Tim said.

He laced up the prison-issue sneakers. They still squished and his socks were soaked through a moment later.

"You're going now?" she asked.

He almost thought she sounded a little regretful about that, and he wondered how often she saw other people.

"There any neighbours around here?"

"Not for miles," she asked. "A few other cabins, but only one inhabited full time. An old hermit, he doesn't do much but stick to his own area. He wouldn't bother you if he saw you, I say you should do him the same courtesy."

"You're sure that boat of yours wouldn't help?"

She frowned at him. "Your leg?"

He nodded. "Dally may be an asshole, but he's right. I'm gonna be a little slow. Gotta think about any advantage I can get. He was right to go. If one of us gets out, there's a chance for the other."

"The boat will only get you so far. There are parts of the bayou where the water almost dries up, then a hundred or two hundred feet later it's like a lake. The pirogue isn't heavy by any means, but it'll be hard going when you have to haul it over it land, especially since the motor's still attached. That's gonna limit how shallow you can go."

"Then I guess I better head out now. You're sure you won't come?"

He put his coffee cup down and stood up, trying not to wince at the pain. She looked conflicted, and a little bit sorry he was leaving, but she didn't say anything about leaving with him. Dallas probably left him behind for nothing - if he was scared of Josie, he didn't have to be. She looked stubborn as a mule about staying put.

"How will I know you made it out of here?" she asked. "And what am I supposed to do with those papers?"

"Hide them," he said. "In case they come by. If you get a chance, hightail it to another county and take the papers to their sheriff."

She eyed him warily. "Another parish, you mean. And I doubt that'll do anything."

"Well, you may not have to worry," he said. "You know, after killing them and all."

He walked out onto the porch and saw the alligator in the light for the first time. He was an eerie yellow-ish white, and sat there with his mouth hanging open. He sure as hell was glad the thing wasn't hungry last night.

"What's he do that for?" he asked. "His mouth open like he's waiting for a snack."

"Gator's do it to regulate their body temperature. Gummy likes to bask in the sun, but he burns easy, overheats. It helps them keep cool."

"So it don't mean nothing?"

"Nothing but they're trying to air condition."

He buttoned up the shirt she'd given him.

"You should let me bandage your leg up," she said.

"No time." He looked back at her. "Come with me. Don't let this happen this way."

"Be careful out there," she said.

Tim looked at her, then nodded. She was determined, that was for sure.

"Don't think I'll be by these parts again. You take care of yourself, Josie."

"You do the same. I'll look over the area and get rid of your footprints. I'm sure your friend left a ton of them."

Tim cracked a small grin, and then nodded his goodbye.

He went down the stairs and off to the right, heading through the bushes, trying to make every step look normal, the pain burning in his leg.

XXXX

Dallas had been moving through the brush for a half hour, by his calculations. He hadn't heard any dogs or the crackle of police radios, but he did hear all kinds of creatures. He was beginning to go crazy with all the noise.

He had gone through the creek a little for awhile, trying to get rid of his footsteps and his scent, but he got creeped out by the murky water and the sounds of splashing. With his luck he'd run right into an angry gator. He went back up on land a little while later, trying his best to get rid of his footprints by stepping lightly.

He wasn't really fond of the woods, and this bayou was like the woods amplified. Everything seemed older, creepier, dirtier and more complicated than a simple stroll through some trees.

He was beginning to feel like a shit for leaving Shepard and the girl behind, too.

He figured he'd get out and go to Shepard's rescue once he had a car and a way out of town, but the more he thought about the warden, the sheriff and those deputies, the more he knew they were going to overpower that girl easy as pie, and then go after them. And they weren't going to put them back in prison. They'd shoot them the minute they spotted them, and that made Shepard a sitting duck.

"Fuck," Dally swore, stopping and looking up at the sky.

He wasn't a rat. He'd stayed with Tommy, bleeding out in an alley like a punk, talking like he was fine. He'd stayed even when the sirens had gotten closer. He'd stayed even after he begged Tommy to let him go so at least one of them was in the clear. He'd stayed until the cuffs had closed around his wrists and he ended up in that shit hole reformatory. He came out of it alive, Tommy dead, and a train ticket to Tulsa in his hand.

He realized now he might have stayed even if Tommy had told him to go.

Dallas kicked at the ground and swore. He was probably going to regret this.

He turned around.

Dallas started following the trail back upstream to where he thought Josie's cabin was. Maybe he'd run into Shepard and they could figure out a way for him to move faster. If he had a log of some kind, maybe they could float down the river so Shepard wouldn't have to walk.

If the girl was with him ... well, he'd just let her do her thing. She could lead, they could follow. He could stand looking at the back of her head for a few hours.

He paused and went down to the edge of the water, wondering if it was safe to drink. He'd never asked the girl that, but he figured maybe she got her water from the branch of the river. She had no working plumbing so it had to come from somewhere.

He leaned down at the water's edge, then heard a strange noise. Glancing to the right, he spotted the gator, and a second later it had lunged, charging up through the shallow water, its jaws open and a bellowing roar coming from it.

He scrambled backwards, slipping on the bank and almost falling. He moved back as quickly as he could, just waiting for the jaws to snap down. He felt his back hit a fallen log, and he almost fell over it.

The gator was about five feet away, frozen in place, its mouth closed. He wasn't sure what the hell it was doing, or what it thought he was doing. He wasn't sure what to do.

He waited for a minute, frozen in place. The gator did the same. He felt around behind him at the size of the log. He could jump over it and give himself a little more safety between him and the gator.

He placed both his hands behind him, counted to three in his head, then swung his legs over. The gator lunged forward briefly, but half heartedly, like it had realized he was going to be too hard to catch without some effort.

Dallas let out the breath he'd been holding. Christ, he needed to get out of the woods and back to civilization. Cars, guns, pool tables, diners, traffic, cigarettes and loud obnoxious women at Buck's. That's what he needed. Not alligators and possums and all this bayou shit.

He saw the gator turn slowly, approach the water's edge and then turn again, sliding around on its belly, still watching him.

It was as good a sign as any to start moving again. Instead of following the water, like he had when he walked down here, he'd move inland a little. As long as it wasn't gator territory, he'd be happy. With any luck he'd run into Shepard and they could start to move.

He turned around, walked three steps, and then suddenly was screaming as the world tilted and everything changed.

XXXX

Tim hadn't gotten far. He had stopped seeing Dally's footprints and figured they'd diverged paths somewhere along the line. All he had to do was keep going until he got to the point where he had to decide between going across the west arm or finding his way down the Atchaflaya. He'd be safe and Dallas could go fuck himself.

The only problem was, Tim knew he wasn't going to make it.

His leg was swollen and the pain was immense. Each step was getting harder and harder. He figured by the end of the day, if the cops hadn't caught up to him, he'd barely be able to take a step. The poultice she'd used had certainly pulled out the infection, but his leg was in need of medication – antibiotics for sure. His wrist was also aching, sharp pains stabbing up his forearm and bicep whenever he took a particularly hard step. She'd wanted to bandage both wounds and he'd said no, more from stupid pride than anything.

He slumped against a tree, trying to get some weight off his leg.

The search party would spot him and open fire. There was no going back to prison.

He slid down the trunk of the tree and rested. He was having a hard time catching his breath, and wondered if he was just overly tired from moving or if the infection was affecting him.

He closed his eyes, feeling the long day before catching up to him. He hadn't been able to sleep the night before, but he could sleep for at least eight hours lying against this tree. He let his mind drift, images of Tulsa in his head. He didn't care about the guns or anything anymore. He just wanted to be somewhere familiar. Buck's, maybe. He'd be sitting at that table that faced the big window, Carolyn next to him, running her hand up his leg. He'd take her upstairs and spend the night twisted in the sheets with her.

He imagined her riding him, his hands planted firmly in the curve of her back, her back arched and her head tilted back, her blonde hair cascading down her back.

He took in a breath. He wanted to go home.

His eyes flew open as he heard a twig snap – somewhere close.

His heart was pounding, all thoughts of the pain in his leg and the fantasies about Carolyn gone. He listened carefully, hearing nothing but the occasional bird, or a little splash in the water.

He wished he had a rifle or a gun or something. Those fucking cops could show up and shoot first, nailing him against the tree. They'd either kill him or drag him back to that hell hole, and he didn't know which he wanted to happen more.

He looked around again, then braced himself against the tree and tried to stand. It was painful to put much weight on his leg, and he thought maybe he could find a sturdy branch to use as a crutch.

"You're nothing more than gator meat out here with that leg you know, cher."

He looked up and saw Josie standing in the clearing, a rifle over her shoulder and a shotgun in her hands.

"Was that you?"

"Stupid. Stepped on a twig, it snapped like I'd fired the shotgun. I was hoping to sneak up on you like those deputies will."

"To prove what?" he asked, sliding back down the tree trunk. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Following you," she said, putting a worn bag down on the ground near him. "Your friend was right, you're going to be captured with your leg like that."

He sighed. "Infected."

She nodded. "That's why I brought this."

She opened the bag and crouched down, opening up the tied flap. Inside he saw gauze, salve and a bottle of something. Prescription.

"Antibiotics, left over. There's not too many left, and I don't know how good they are, but I got bronchitis real bad last winter, and the doctor in town gave me that. I never finished them."

Tim popped a couple of the pills, dry swallowing them. She uncapped a canteen.

"You hurried out so fast I didn't get to give you all of this."

She handed him the canteen and he took a long drink.

"I never asked where you get your drinking water."

"There's a well about a quarter of a mile up river," she said. I take as many containers as I can, fill up every other day or so. When Jean-Rene was here, he would come back with so much. It's hard without him."

"He's a lot older than you."

She nodded. "I was a mistake. A happy one, said my mother, but a mistake nonetheless."

She took the tube of salve and squeezed half of it on Tim's wound. He winced at the pain.

She unrolled the gauze and wound it up around the wound, tucking the ends in tightly. It already felt more stable, but the pain was still there.

"I went and erased your footprints from around the cabin," she said. "I also took the uniforms and the cuffs and shackles and buried them inside Gummy's pen. No one will look there. There's nothing to show you were there."

"Smart girl," he said. He should've thought of that, but she seemed to be one step ahead of him, and he blamed it on the infection.

"I brought aspirin too," she said, handing him a few tablets. He swallowed these with water, although they disintegrated on his tongue almost immediately, leaving a bitter, chalky taste in his mouth.

She held out something. A peppermint.

He smiled a little. "Guess I did kind of rush out."

"You won't be able to make it far on your leg; I saw how you tried to hide the limp from me when you left."

"You didn't want to come."

"I still don't," she said. She looked into his eyes. "But I know I have to. Not to run from them, but to help you. We can still catch up to your friend. He doesn't hide his movements well here."

"Where'd you put the papers?"

"I brought them with me." She pulled them out of her back pocket, showed him, then tucked them back in again.

Tim sighed. He was not going to admit how glad he was to see her, not just because he needed help getting out of here. He was relieved she wouldn't be anywhere near that cabin.

She leaned down and moved hair off his forehead.

"You're sweating from the infection," she said. He took in a breath at how tenderly she moved the hair away from his eyes. "You're a mess."

He put his hand on her arm, seeing fleeting alarm in her eyes. As she relaxed, he ran his hand up her arm to her shoulder and into her hair. Her hair was soft.

He pulled her down to him slowly, waiting to see if she'd pull back, but she didn't. Her hair smelled like lemons up close, and he supposed she did drag a comb through it now and then.

He touched her cheek, running his thumb over her freckles. He brought his hand around to the back of her neck.

Her lips were soft when they reached his, and he wondered if the deputies were all she knew about men. She kissed him, flicking his lip with her tongue and decided they probably weren't. She braced her hands on his shoulder, and he reached up, trying his best to get his arms around her. They tumbled over onto the ground, and she began to laugh.

"Clumsy, huh?" he asked.

Her eyes were full of mischief, and she ran her fingers along his lips. "Not so clumsy, cher."

He kissed her again, pulling her tightly to him, feeling pine needles poke into his arms.

XXXX

Roundtree approached the cabin slowly. He was about to step over the chicken wire fence until he spotted the gator.

He held the gun on it for a minute, marvelling at the sight. He'd never seen an albino alligator before, but he'd heard about them. They were pretty rare, and it seemed Josie Landry had one as a pet.

He noticed the pen only went around part of the house. He skirted the edge of the fence, went past an outhouse, and looked around for clues. There wasn't a single footprint around except the small, barefoot impressions in the mud he assumed were Josie's. She'd never worn shoes any time he'd seen her, and he had no idea how she managed to navigate around a dangerous bayou without something protecting her feet.

He got around to the back of the house, but the windows were up too high since the place was built on stilts. Parts of the bayou still flood badly certain times of the year, and most of the cabins out here were prepared for it.

As he circled around the house, he wondered if Sheriff MacGregor had figured out what he'd done and where he was. Hickom and Lee would know; they'd be on his tail. He had to make this quick.

He went up to the front porch and looked inside the window, but didn't see anything astray. He knocked on the door.

"Josie! Josephine Landry, this is Paul Roundtree," he hollered. He paused. "Don't shoot me!"

There was no telltale click of a gun or booming shot. In fact, it didn't look like anyone was home.

He knocked again, then tried the knob. The doorknob turned, and the door opened.

He wasn't shocked. Most people in the bayou left their doors unlocked, and Josie had an alligator keeping watch that would scare off most people. He didn't think the two escapees were most people though.

He called out a hello, but there was no reply. The cabin wasn't very big, and he searched through it quickly, not finding anything out of sorts. Dishes were clean in their cupboards, food was in an icebox, and everything seemed to be made up and in its rightful place. He was starting to wonder if they had come through here at all.

They had to have, he thought. He could not have just thrown away his career on a gamble that didn't pay out.

He went outside the cabin and shut the door behind him. He went down the stairs and to a little trail down the right hand side, following the river. It was as good a place to start as any.

About an hour later, he heard voices and crept into the brush as quietly as he could. He leaned around a tree and spotted Josie leaning over a man.

At first he thought maybe she'd shot him, but the way she was tenderly brushing his hair out of his face told him otherwise. He was hurt somehow though. Paul had seen that sheen of pain on too many faces.

He felt like an intruder as he watched Josie kissed the man. A part of him was relieved she was okay, she wasn't irreparably damaged by Hickom and Lee. She trusted someone. It wasn't him – it shouldn't be – but it was someone. Even an escaped prisoner was better than nothing.

They fell over onto the forest floor and laughed, and she kissed him again for a few moments, before they righted themselves.

She had a rucksack with her, and helped him to his feet. He was favouring one leg. Paul had no idea where the other prisoner was. Maybe they had parted ways the minute those chains came undone. Maybe the other one had hurt this one.

He watched Josie find him a stick to use as a cane, then let him lean on her as they began to move.

He couldn't let them go. He pulled his gun from the holster and cocked back the hammer.

* * *

**A/N:** So what on earth happened to Dallas? And with him in some kind of peril and the deputy sneaking up on Tim and Josie, how are they going to get out of this? (They have two chapters to do it lol).


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I try to own Josie, but she's ornery.

**Author's Note:** One more chapter to go, folks.

* * *

XXXX

**Chapter 13**

Tim's leg was really bothering him now that he was upright, but Josie seemed strong – she was supporting a lot of his body weight anyway.

They hadn't gone more than a few steps when a voice rang out.

"Josie Landry!"

Her head whipped around, and she had the shotgun up and pointed at a tree. He tried to balance, thrown off by her sudden movement. He wished he'd asked to carry the rifle slung on her back.

"Josie, this is Deputy Roundtree … this is Paul. Paul Roundtree."

"Shit," Tim swore. There was no way he could run with the cops this close. For all he knew, they were surrounded.

Roundtree slowly stepped around a tree, his gun drawn and pointed at them. Josie stepped in front of Tim and trained the gun on the deputy.

"Josie, put the gun down," Roundtree said.

"No," she said. "I'll go to hell before I do that. You put yours down."

Tim stared at the cop for a moment, looking at him hard. He was alone. That much was certain, because MacGregor and his cronies, especially the warden, wouldn't have been able to stand being hidden this long. They'd want to come out and gloat.

"I think he's alone," Tim whispered. "And I don't think he's come to shoot us."

She still had the gun trained on Roundtree, and Tim saw how the gun barely quaked. He knew when push came to shove she'd fire, and she'd hit Roundtree. She struck him as being a decent shot.

"Put the gun down!" Roundtree said. "Now!"

"I think you oughta put your gun down," Tim said.

Josie was starting to tremble beside him.

He turned toward Roundtree. "Put it down. You owe it to her."

Roundtree looked at him, then Josie, then slowly holstered his weapon.

Josie held her shotgun on Roundtree. Tim reached out, his arm alongside Josie's.

"Put the gun down," he said. "He ain't gonna hurt us."

"No!" she said, tears on her cheeks. "No, he won't."

"Was he one of them?" Tim asked.

"No." Her voice faltered.

"Then don't make him pay for the mistakes of others," he said. "Come on now, cher, put the gun down."

Maybe it was the use of the word that distracted her, but she was faltered enough to let the barrel drop a little, and Tim closed his hand around the stock and took the gun out of her hands, placing it down on the ground.

"Where are they?" Tim asked.

"Coming," Roundtree said, approaching them slowly. "Hickom, Lee, and if they've figured out I ditched them to come over here, probably the sheriff himself, along with warden Striker."

He heard the sharp intake of breath from Josie. "I'm ready for them."

"I'm not," Tim said. "I gotta get outta here."

"You both have to, and your friend too, wherever he is," Roundtree said.

"Don't know. We parted ways."

"They'll bring dogs."

Josie groaned. "They'll smell that wound right away. Pete Pender keeps bloodhounds for searches."

"They lost your scent last night in the river," he said. "I suspected you two might have come here, Jean-Rene thought you might."

"Is he okay?" Josie asked.

"Yeah," Roundtree said. "But you need to move."

Josie looked from Roundtree to Tim.

"She don't wanna go," Tim said. "Not when she could stay behind and blow those assholes' heads off."

Roundtree nodded. "I know."

"This isn't fair," Josie said. "I'm not running from them."

"You aren't a runner, Josie, I've seen that," Roundtree said. "You're a strong person. A strong woman. Maybe it's just today isn't the day to make the stand."

"Or you make it another way," Tim murmured.

Josie looked back at him and he looked at Roundtree.

"She's got some papers," Tim said. "Ones I stole from the prison. Enough to turn that place on its ear and oust your sheriff."

"That true?"

Josie nodded, then looked back at Tim. He nodded at her and she pulled out the papers. Roundtree approached and took them, giving them a quick read.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

Josie took them back, stuffing them in her rucksack.

"That ought to be enough," Tim said. "Now help us out."

"The car you guys drove in with, the Thunderbird? It's in an impound lot just on the outskirts of town, not too far from the river," Roundtree said.

"Duschenes place?" Josie asked.

Roundtree nodded. "All they got for security is a fence and a chain lock. If you can take care of those shackles, you can take care of the chain lock."

"You need to stall them," Josie said. "We need to find his friend, and he needs help getting out of here. We need time."

"I'll do the best I can," Roundtree said finally. "I'll go back to your cabin and stall them as much as I can. They'll be angry – I was supposed to report back to the sheriff so Hickom, Lee and I could get over here last night. I came over on my own, and I suspect they went back to the sheriff to see where I was. They'll have figured out by now I came here instead."

"What about your radio?" Josie asked.

"Fell in the river back past the Tourgis place, shorted all our radios out. You won't be able to hear them coming."

"Then we should move," Josie said. She sounded resigned to her fate helping him limp through the bayou, but he couldn't feel sorry for it.

"Look, if you manage to get them taken care of and you come looking for us, we'll need a signal so we know it's you." Tim whistled, long and low, ending in a high note.

Roundtree nodded. "Find your friend. If they only come upon one of you … well, they won't be happy. Find him, or else he doesn't have much of a chance of getting out here alive."

XXXX

Tim moved with a bit more speed in his step after Roundtree let them go. His leg felt like fire, his breathing was hard, and he felt sick and dizzy at turns, but he had to move. He knew where the car was, now he just had to get to it.

"We need to find Dallas," Josie said.

"He's the one that took off."

"He didn't want me coming with y'all," she said. "I could see that plain as day if you couldn't. But if they find him first they'll kill him. You heard Roundtree. Do you really want that?"

"Some days … some days I'd like to pull the trigger," Tim said with a laugh.

"I saw his footprints over here. He came this way. We need to find him, and thankfully he's not unnoticeable in these woods. It's like seeing an elephant crashed through here."

"Dally isn't much for finesse," Tim agreed. "As most girls could tell you, I'd guess."

"You argue like brothers."

"I already got one," Tim grunted, his foot aching. "Don't need another."

They travelled for only a few minutes more, when Josie stopped him.

"What?"

"The tracks reverse," she said, staring at the ground in confusion. She smiled a minute later. "He turned around. He was coming back."

Tim lifted an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

"Come on," she said. "This way."

They walked about five minutes near the shore and then she stopped him again.

"Over there."

He looked over, half expecting to see Dally's body floating in the bayou, but instead saw a huge gator on the bank nearby.

"Mama gator." Josie's voice was low. "They have their babies in the spring and summer and stay with them for about a year, through winter. They're awful aggressive defending their nests. We'd best steer clear."

"Yeah, you'd best do that."

Tim looked around, trying to spot where Dally's voice had come from.

"I want you to shut your fucking mouth. I'm up here."

Tim looked up, and Josie yanked on his arm and pointed. Hanging up in a trapper's snare about twenty feet away was Dallas Winston.

He bit the inside of his cheek, but couldn't stop the laughter.

"Come on," Josie said. "You're aggravating the gator."

Josie pulled Tim inland a bit more, past a old fallen tree, until they were underneath Dallas in the snare.

"Fancy meeting you here," Tim said with a grin.

"Shut the fuck up and get me down."

"How long have you been up there?" Josie asked.

"I dunno," Dallas said. "Awhile I guess."

"Dally, I don't know," Tim said. "I might slow you down if we get you down from there."

"Fuck. You." Dallas tried to move, but the snare had him tight. "Just get me down! I got tangled up here coming back for your sorry ass."

"Quiet!" Josie said. "The gator will get over here and eat us alive to protect the nest. And we have no idea how far out the sheriff is."

"Sheriff?" Dallas asked.

"Remember that cop that drove us to the joint? He came after us to warn us. To warn Josie. Those deputies and the sheriff are on their way here. He told me where Buck's car is, it's not far off the river. We just have to get downstream further and cross the river, then we can get the fuck outta here."

Josie laid the two guns down and took a knife out of the rucksack. She climbed nimbly up the tree the snare was in. She shimmied out along the branch and cut the snare. Dallas tumbled to the ground unceremoniously.

"Motherfucker," he swore. "You couldn't have been a little bit gentle?"

"There's no time," Josie said, hanging off the branch and dropping to the ground as quiet as a cat. "We have to move if we want to get you both out of here."

"Shepard's leg is fucked."

"And yet _you_ were caught in a snare," she said. "Do you want to continue to argue? If you forgot, I have two guns. Let's go!"

Dallas and Tim exchanged a look, then moved ahead with Josie.

XXXX

MacGregor crossed the river on a small raft the guards had made the prisoners fashion from some of the railroad ties. Striker had yet to take them back to the prison, making the prisoners sleep on the bus as punishment for the chain gang break.

Roundtree was going to catch a lot of shit when they caught up with them. Maybe he wanted all the glory of capturing the prisoners … or maybe, it was something else entirely. It was that something else that bothered him.

They moved through the bush on the other side of the river, slashing at the brush with machetes. MacGregor stopped the group when they got to the pen. Striker was right behind them, and he likely spotted the cabin over the alligator. Striker stepped over the fencing without bothering to look around.

"I'll wring that little whore's neck if they're in there," Striker said.

MacGregor stopped dead in his tracks.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," Striker said. He turned around, looking at MacGregor, Hickom and Lee. "Let's go!"

MacGregor nodded to his left, and Striker turned to face the alligator.

"Holy shit!"

Striker fumbled with his gun and fell over as the alligator lazily rushed him. MacGregor didn't even think to get his handgun out.

Hickom fired off a few shots, but missed, and the gator slunk back toward the water.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you to go around an alligator pen?"

They looked ahead and saw Roundtree standing on the front porch.

"Where the hell have you been?" Hickom asked. "We spent half the night waiting on you."

"When I passed by the river, I thought I heard some commotion on this side, so I got myself over here. Found the cabin a little while ago. Met the gator, too."

They all skirted the enclosure and came up onto the front porch.

"Where are they?" the sheriff asked.

"Not here," Roundtree said. "Don't know where they are. They may have taken the girl hostage."

The sheriff took a good look at Roundtree. He hadn't been there that night, but it damn well looked like he knew what happened. He was looking at Hickom with barely contained rage. MacGregor moved past Roundtree into the cabin, looking around himself. The place looked empty.

"She harboured some fugitives awhile back," the sheriff said.

"I heard it another way," Roundtree said.

"You're headed on a good path, Paul, don't ruin it now," MacGregor said. "I thought you might be worthy of working alongside Mr. Striker here."

"He isn't fit to shine my shoes," Roundtree said.

Striker burst through the crowd to get to Roundtree, and MacGregor let him and Roundtree go at it for a minute, until he saw that Roundtree was actually getting somewhere.

"Get them apart!" MacGregor said, ordering Hickom and Lee into the fray. A moment later all that you could hear in the cabin was heavy breathing.

"What are you doing, Paul?" he asked.

"What I should've done the moment I heard these two assholes raped Josie Landry," Roundtree said. "I'm taking a stand. I'm not doing this anymore. That girl was ready to shoot your brains out if you showed up here. Not that I'd mind, I want to get that clear. But I mind her going away for something like putting a lame dog down. I ain't gonna let this happen."

"You don't get to make that choice, Paul."

MacGregor turned to Hickom. "Go tell the officer outside to radio word to the command center. Tell them to bring Jean-Rene Landry out here. I saw him on the bus back at the work site. Bring him on down."

"What are you doing?" Roundtree asked.

"Stacking the odds in my favour," MacGregor said. "I always do. You said she was ready to shoot us. So that says you saw her. It's a shame Paul, you could've been something. There's a good chance they all headed south – it's pretty much the only way out of here that gets them near civilization. We'll get down river to where they'll try and cross back. Get Jean-Rene Landry to the other side of the river, and we'll meet up and cut them off. I'm pretty sure Josie won't have much to say when we got a gun to her brother's head. She'll put her weapon down and she'll give those boys up pretty damn fast."

Roundtree looked properly horrified.

"Lee. Take Paul for a little walk in the woods. Strip him of that badge and gun. A man like this ain't fit to be a sheriff's deputy."

"Yes, sir," Lee said, grinning like a maniac. He grabbed Paul's gun out of its holster, then ripped the badge off his chest.

XXXX

"We have to keep moving," Josie said.

Tim was leaning on Dallas hard. Josie was leading them through the bush, Dallas following behind, helping Tim move. His limp was so bad he was barely putting any weight on it, and Dally was tired from hauling Shepard so far. But Josie kept moving, so Dallas kept up with her, but he was slowing down with Shepard.

For once, he didn't run his mouth about it. Shepard had lapsed into a sullen silence as they moved. It unnerved him that Shepard wasn't getting on him about being caught in that snare. On any other day that would've been fuel for a lifetime of ribbing.

"I'm moving as fast as I can," Tim said, as if he'd heard Dally's thoughts.

"I know," Dally huffed, his breathing heavy. "They're gonna kill us. Ain't gonna take us back to any prison."

"Yeah."

Striker's whole deal had probably been bullshit too. He knew it then, somewhere deep in his mind. It had seemed like a good gamble to make, but if he'd really believed it, he wouldn't have run with Shepard off that chain gang. Striker wasn't no North side greaser. He might look the part, the down-home cowboy, but he was slick as a South side Soc.

Somehow, moving through the bayou, sweating and in pain, it had been hammered home pretty hard that Striker was going to kill them, the sheriff going right along with it. Dally knew Shepard had probably realized it too - it might not account for his quietness, but it explained why Shepard kept moving, pushing ahead even though Dally was doing most of the work. A gun sight on your back sure sped things up.

Josie stopped up ahead and waited for them to catch up. She handed Dally the canteen, and he took a cursory sip. He passed it to Tim, who drank in choking mouthfuls. His lips were cracking.

"If I don't make it –" Shepard started to say.

"Shut up," Josie said.

"I mean it, if it don't look good, leave me here and get Dallas out of here. Get yourself out of here to another county and get those papers to someone."

Dallas looked over at him, his hard eyes narrowed. So he'd given the papers to Josie.

"Shut up. Don't be such a wimp now, cher," she said. "We don't have much farther to go."

Dally looked over at Shepard, his face thoughtful. At least Shepard knew the score. He nodded at him. "Come on, I ain't dragged your ass this far to drop you now."

They moved on through the bayou, past swampy ponds, and dry copses of trees.

Awhile later Dally called Josie to a stop. Shepard was sweating up a storm, his leg barely able to support his weight. Dallas sat him down at the base of a tree and handed him the canteen. It was almost empty.

Tim closed his eyes as Josie yanked up the pant leg. Dallas looked down at it - the infection was worse. He watched Josie change the bandages and cringed at the pus in the wound surrounding Shepard's ankle. There were red spider-like streaks midway up his calf and those hadn't been there that morning.

Shepard was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Josie rewrapped his leg after covering it in salve, then wiped his forehead with a bandana. Her gaze was guarded and her forehead wrinkled.

She took the rifle off her shoulder and handed it to Dallas, then slung the shotgun over her shoulder.

She stood up and looked at Dallas, subtly nodding to the side. He followed her away from Shepard, the rifle on his back.

"He's in bad shape," Dallas said, his voice low.

"He needs a hospital," she stated.

Dallas sighed. "Even if we get outta here, we ain't gonna be able to walk into any hospital."

Josie looked over at Shepard, then back at him. "I know a doctor. He treats a lot of us. He keeps his mouth shut real good and can help him. We need to get to the river's edge and cross over. Roundtree said your car was at Duchenes' place. After we make it across, it's a half hour hike to the road and Duchenes."

Dallas looked back at Shepard. "What's his chances?"

"With a doctor, good. Without, he's going to die," Josie said. "He's going into septic shock."

"You're sure?"

"They got the bullet out of my mother at the hospital. She was gut shot. Bullet didn't kill her, it was the infection afterward. Took her four days to die. I'm sure."

"Well, he ain't gonna die," Dally said, glancing back at Shepard. He looked back at Josie whose worried gaze was on Tim.

"You were so eager to leave him before," she said.

"But I didn't."

"He said we should leave him if it gets bad. Will you go then?" she asked. Her gaze was still on Shepard.

"They'd kill him, you know it as well as I do."

Dallas looked at Shepard, thinking of Tommy O'Halloran. He'd wanted permission to run then. He had it now, and it was the last thing he wanted.

"Anyhow, I ain't gonna let him get off easy sitting on his ass the rest of the day while we hike around here," Dally said. "I leave him behind I'll never hear the end of it. Best way to keep his fat mouth shut is drag him along."

Josie looked up with him, a slight smile on her face. Her eyes were clear, nothing haunting them. They just looked determined. "He said you were friends. I didn't believe it until now."

"Friends for now," he grinned. "That can turn on a dime. Anyhow, he didn't have 'croak in the bayou' in his plans, and Shepard always sticks to his plans."

Josie nodded, gave him a terse smile, then headed back to Tim. Dallas followed a minute later. He hauled Tim up, ignoring the groan of pain he made and started dragging him through the bayou a little faster.

* * *

**A/N:** So the search team is bringing in Josie's brother - will she give them up to save him? Or will Tim save everyone the trouble and croak in the bayou even though it wasn't in his plans?


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I created Josie, some cops and a whole lot of trouble.

**Author's Note**: Last chapter, folks.

* * *

XXXX

**Chapter 14**

Lee marched Roundtree through the bayou. Roundtree knew he had to do something before they got to a place where Lee decided enough walking was enough.

He knew the sheriff and his cronies would head back to the water's edge to wait for Jean-Rene to be brought down. They'd sail down the river, cut them all off and he didn't want to think about what would happen to Josie.

As they walked, Paul kept his eyes open for anything that could help, a stick, a rock, anything. Lee had both his own baton and his on his belt, and there wasn't anything Paul had on him that could help.

"How could you do it?" he asked. "She was a seventeen year old kid."

"She was asking for it. Short shorts, low cut top, looking at us the whole time. You can't tell me she didn't give it up to each one of those escaped cons that came through her place that night. Come on now, you ain't that stupid."

"It's too bad you are," Paul murmured.

He saw the gator before Lee did. A big mother along the side of the water, basking on a log not too far from a mud nest. She was frozen in place, mouth gaping open. Paul thought for a few seconds about whether he could do it or not.

Lee turned around, Paul's service weapon in his hand. His back was to the gator.

"On your knees," he said.

"You're not really serious, are you?" Paul asked. "You're gonna shoot me here in the middle of the bayou? What are you going to tell everyone? What are you going to tell my wife?"

"Prisoners got the jump on you, grabbed your gun, shot you. Simple as that."

"I don't believe you."

Lee had the gun pointed at the ground. He was a slow shot. There was time.

Paul rushed him and pushed Lee as hard as he could, sending him flying through the air. He landed with a whump at the edge of the water, the gun about five feet away.

The gator roared, lunging out of the water and toward them both. Paul scrambled up and jumped back up the bank and leapt at the gun, grabbing it and rolling away from the water. Lee, the breath knocked out of him, scrambled to get to his feet.

Lee reached for his own gun in its holster, but the gator was on him.

The gator clamped down on Lee's leg, and his screams echoed through the woods. Paul turned away from the thrashing water, turning red with blood, and scrambled toward a stand of trees. He heard Lee's gun fire once, twice, then there was an ominous click.

Wet powder from falling into the creek was his guess. Roundtree heard the screams again, the bellowing of the gator, and he leaped through the bush and trees, running as fast as he could, putting the image of Carter Lee out of his head.

He had to focus on getting to the escapees before anyone else.

He just had to figure out which way they'd gone first.

XXXX

Tim had never been so relieved in his life when Dally reported he could see the river.

"Stay down," Dally said. "They might have lookouts along the other side of the river, just waiting to spot us."

Josie nodded. "We need a way across. Tim can't go in the water with his ankle like this. We need to make a raft."

"I ain't no Boy Scout," Dallas said. "Might've been absent the day they taught raft making in school."

"I know how," Josie said impatiently. "I need some small tree limbs, and some reeds and branches. There's some twine in my bag. Get that out, start collecting. And by God, hurry."

Josie laid Tim down next to a log while they made their raft. Tim was sluggish and tired, and felt pretty stupid that he couldn't help. Dallas and Josie managed to get the raft about two feet across and six feet long when she stopped.

"That's enough." She moved it toward Tim. "Just enough for him."

"What?" Dallas asked, following her and sitting behind the huge tree, next to him.

"We don't have time," she said. "We'll get in the water, hold the raft and swim across with it."

"Dally ain't a strong swimmer," Tim piped up, the effort it took to talk surprising him. He was in bad shape.

"I swim just fine."

"The fucker almost drowned me on the way over to your cabin," Tim said.

"Come on. Help me get him on the raft." Josie wasn't listening to him.

Tim was lying in a depression in the ground, a giant tree trunk next to him. He was tired and not in the mood to float across the river. He just wanted to go to sleep.

XXXX

Dally helped Josie move Tim onto the makeshift raft. If it held together long enough to make it to the other side, he'd be surprised. He didn't know what it would do to Shepard's leg to get it wet again, but he was going to have to suffer.

"Hand me my bag," Josie said. "We'll have to drag this thing down to the water."

"Josephine Landry!"

Dallas yanked her to the ground, shoving her next to Shepard. He swung the rifle around in front of him, keeping his head low.

"Where the hell did that come from?" Dally asked.

"We're fucked," Tim muttered.

"Over there," Josie whispered, pointing on the other side of the log.

Dally scooted up and dug out the depression next to the log until there was a hole at the bottom he could see through. About twenty-five feet away he could see the warden, the asshole cop and the sheriff standing at the shore, a boat behind them. They weren't alone.

"Shit!" Dally spat.

"What?" Josie asked.

"It's the sheriff. And he's got your brother."

"What?" Tim asked, suddenly more lucid. He struggled to sit up, and Dally shoved a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back down.

"Don't get us fucking shot, Shepard," Dallas whispered. "Shut up."

Josie's eyes had widened, and she wriggled near Dallas to look under the log. Josie quietly pumped the shotgun next to him.

"He's got your brother," Dally said again. Jean-Rene Landry was blindfolded, standing with his hands cuffed in front of him and his ankles shackled. One of the sheriff's deputies had a gun on him. He knew the other had to be nearby. They were probably flanking them now. Dally's finger rested on the trigger.

Josie tried to stand up, but Dallas grabbed her and wrestled her back to the ground, tucking her in between him and Tim.

"What are they doing? Why do they have Jean-Rene?"

"He's the bait," Dallas said.

"Oh my God," Josie said.

"Josie, we know you've been helping these escapees, and that's a pretty big felony, aiding and abetting," Sheriff MacGregor said. "We ain't so sure your brother approves."

Dallas heard Jean-Rene struggling to speak through the gag they had on him.

"Don't give in," Dallas said. "No matter what he says."

"They're going to kill him!" Josie whispered, her voice hoarse. "I never should've come, I should've stayed at the cabin, I should've -"

"Shut up," Dallas said. "You did come, now he's here. We gotta figure something out."

"You got 'til the count of ten to throw out your shotgun, or Jean-Rene ain't long for this earth. You hear me, Josie? Count of ten. Then I want you and those prisoners to put your hands up and walk out from there so we can take you in."

Dallas heard Jean-Rene's protests again. He probably better than anyone knew that taking them in meant putting them six feet under.

"He don't know about the rifle," Dallas said. He moved with Josie, so he could see better. He was afraid to let her go - she was shaking, and her hand was on that shotgun. She couldn't fire it without risking buckshot hitting her brother.

Tim turned his head, looking away from the log.

"We are so fucked," he said again.

"Shut up!" Dallas hissed. If they didn't know Tim was there, they might have a chance. A chance of what, he didn't know. Shepard didn't look like he could handle remembering his own name, forget about firing a rifle.

He looked at Shepard and frowned. He was staring off into space.

"Leave me the rifle. You two make a run for it, behind us. Get behind the trees," Tim said.

Dallas looked over at him, nodding, a measure of respect in his eyes.

"I'll give you the rifle," Dallas said. "Long as you promise not to shoot us."

Shepard smiled weakly. "I'm tired, but I ain't stupid."

Dally peered down under the log again to get a better view.

Striker and MacGregor, both armed to the teeth, and one of the deputies - he thought it was Hickom - were holding the gun on Jean-Rene. The other deputy was missing and that worried him.

Josie was still pressed against him, her breathing ragged.

"The trees, Dally," Tim said.

"Gimme a minute," Dallas said. "I'll fire, Josie. You run."

"I'm not going anywhere!" she said. "They have my brother!"

"No, Dally, the trees," Shepard said again.

Dallas looked over at him. Shepard was pointing.

Dallas looked into the trees and caught the glint of something. He squinted, trying to make it out. The sun flashed on it a second later.

It might be the other deputy, flanking them from behind. He suddenly had visions of catching a bullet in the back of the head and shuddered involuntarily.

A whistle sounded. The note was low for a few seconds, then a high note.

"What the fuck?" Dallas asked. That was the whistle Tim and his boys used.

"It's Roundtree," Tim said. "I told him."

That pretty boy cop sure as hell better be on their side.

Dallas peered towards the sheriff and warden again, the boat behind them, bobbing in the river.

They needed that boat, and the only people he had to rely on to get it were a Cajun girl, a crippled gang leader and a cop.

There was no way Roundtree was going to take these guys out. He was a cop, and like it or not, the guy was going to want to bring everyone in nice and easy and all wrapped up like a good little boy.

"I'm giving you to the count of ten, or he gets a bullet in the brain," MacGregor said. "One, two - "

"No!"

Josie scrambled up and Dallas swore as she leapt over the log, the shotgun held in her outstretched hand.

"Lay down your weapon!"

"Let him go!" Josie yelled.

The sheriff laughed. "You want me to let him go? Honey, he beat up one of my deputies pretty bad. This one right here in fact, the one holding the gun on him? I don't think your brother is going anywhere."

Josie moved closer to them, laying the shotgun down on the ground.

"I might be persuaded to not kill him, though."

"Anything. Just don't hurt him," she said.

Dally could hear her brother screaming behind the gag. Josie was offering herself up like a lamb at slaughter.

The deputy, Hickom, began to laugh. "Looks like it's my lucky day."

Dallas held onto Josie's rifle. He couldn't fire now – she was right in his line of fire, and Hickom had a gun on her brother. If he shot at one, the other died.

Hickom was telling her to walk toward him, and Striker moved over to hold a gun to Jean-Rene's head. Dallas could read this like the ending of a bad novel – Josie'd be raped again, and Striker would still put a bullet in her brother's head.

He looked over at Tim.

"Roundtree's out there," Tim said.

"You sure he's not gonna shoot us?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "Don't fuck up his shot."

"You think he's gonna fucking shoot another cop? You're out of your mind, man!" Dallas said. His hands closed around the stock of the rifle.

"Just wait it out," Tim said.

"You get those prisoners on out here," MacGregor said.

"I only got one," Josie said. "The other one got hurt, bad. We had to leave him behind."

Dallas let out a breath. At least she hadn't given up the entire farm.

Her voice was getting further away as she moved toward the sheriff. A minute later he heard her screams of protest. He looked under the log and saw Hickom dragging her toward the boat. Striker and MacGregor were laughing.

"Stupid," Striker said. "Like they all are."

Striker pulled back the hammer on the pistol at Jean-Rene's head. Josie, seeing her sacrifice had gained her nothing, started screaming and trying to fight Hickom, who had a good grip on her.

"Ah, shit," Dallas said with feeling. He counted to three in his head, then popped up from behind the log, aiming to take out Striker.

He took in a measured breath and fired.

Josie screamed.

XXXX

Tim struggled to get up and see what the hell was going on.

Striker was on the ground, grasping his leg, and Jean-Rene had stumbled against a tree trunk. Josie, screaming, broke free from Hickom and ran towards Jean-Rene.

Dallas had run to a nearby tree that couldn't hide him completely. He had the rifle trained on MacGregor.

"I'd put that down if I were you," Dally said. "I'm a real good shot."

Hickom had unholstered his gun and had it on Josie. Tim wished like hell he had a gun. He struggled to move down toward the other end of the fallen log, away from Dallas, aiming to make a distraction.

"Throw it down!" Tim yelled, popping up from behind the log. Another shot rang out and Tim ducked down as the wood splintered near his head. Shots rang from behind him, and he heard the repeat of the rifle Dally had. Josie was still screaming.

A moment later Roundtree charged out of the bush and towards him. He crouched behind the log, not far from Tim, firing two rounds.

Roundtree wordlessly pulled out another gun from his holster and handed it to Tim. He cocked the weapon and then cautiously peeked up. Josie, taking advantage of the cease of gunfire, flew at Hickom.

Tim saw a flash of grey out of the corner of his eye and saw MacGregor disappear into the bayou, racing through the trees way faster than Tim expected a man of his size to move.

Dallas fired the rifle twice at MacGregor, then swore.

"He's getting away!" Dallas said, charging after MacGregor.

Josie was struggling with Hickom and his gun. Tim ducked as Hickom's weapon discharged his way. He tried to aim, but Josie and Hickom were too close together.

Roundtree stood up, and he was yelling at Hickom to put down the weapon. Hickom flung Josie off him, raised his gun, and Tim braced himself against the log, trying his best to hold his shaking arm steady.

Three loud blasts made him jump, wood splintering nearby again. He looked around wildly - Josie was standing over Hickom's body, a neat hole in the middle of his head. She held no gun in her hand, and bent to retrieve Hickom's.

"I didn't even get to shoot him," she said.

Tim looked around, confused, and spotted Roundtree, lying on the ground not too far away, blood blooming on the front of his uniform. Hickom must've hit him, but Roundtree had returned fire just in time.

Josie whirled around, looking for all of them. She saw her brother was okay, leaning up against a tree, the blindfold pushed up on his head. Striker was nearby, grasping his wounded leg, and not bothering to try and move. Josie saw her brother was safe, then rushed toward Roundtree. Tim got up and crawled toward him, his leg burning with pain.

Josie was holding pressure on the wound in Roundtree's chest by the time he reached him.

"Sorry," Roundtree gasped. "I couldn't … couldn't let you shoot him."

"It wasn't your fight," Josie said, tearing up.

"Wasn't … yours."

Tim saw the gun in Roundtree's hand. He looked from Roundtree to Hickom. He didn't think the cop had the guts to do it, but he'd killed one of his own.

"We gotta get him to a hospital," Tim said, his breathing laboured.

"He's not the only one."

Tim flopped onto his back and saw Dallas looming in front of him.

"He got away. Fucking bastard sheriff runs like a jack rabbit. I lost him," Dallas said.

"Where's Lee?" Josie asked.

"Gator," Roundtree said, coughing and spraying blood.

"Get him into the boat," she said. "Come on."

"I'll stay here with Striker," Jean-Rene said. "I'll keep an eye for MacGregor. Leave me the shotgun."

Josie moved over and hugged her brother, then passed him her rucksack and gun. Dallas and Josie prepared to move Roundtree.

"I don't normally help out cops like this," Dallas grunted. "You owe me."

Roundtree grunted out a laugh, his breath coming in a wheezing gasp. Tim watched them move Roundtree to the boat, struggling with his weight. Josie stayed with him while Dallas came back for Tim.

"I told you to leave me," he said.

"Yeah, when the fuck do I ever listen to you?" Dallas asked. "Stop whining."

Tim laughed, feverish and hurting, smelling blood and cordite in the air.

He was laying in the boat near Roundtree, the whir of the outboard far away. He watched the sky shift as the small boat moved across the river, toward the far shore. Birds wheeled in the sky, and at some point, it all went black.

XXXX

_**72 hours later**_

A big pickup truck approached from the south. Tim stepped from the side of the road, where the car was hidden behind some brush, and waited.

The pickup skidded to a stop a few minutes later, and Josie Landry jumped out, her feet bare, her hair unkempt as always.

"You're okay!" she said, throwing her arms around Tim.

Tim noticed Dallas raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, your arm!" she exclaimed, looking at the heavy cast on Tim's forearm and wrist.

"Broken," he said. "Ain't gonna kill me."

"Your leg would have," she said seriously.

Tim nodded. "Got a shitload of antibiotics, that doc you sent me to had me hooked up to an IV, all kinds of stuff. Still hurts like a bitch. How's Roundtree?"

"He's going to make it. They had to do a big operation in Baton Rouge, and it was touch and go, but he'll be okay," she said. "His wife let me borrow his truck to come out here."

"Where's Jean-Rene?"

"Jail, in another parish. They haven't figured out what to do with him yet. Because of all the bogus convictions at the Strikersville jail, his conviction is being questioned. They might retry him, and if they do, he might have a better chance. I might have to tell them why he did what he did."

"You gonna do it?"

She nodded. "If it will help keep Jean-Rene out of prison, I will. He doesn't want me to. But I can't have him go away for doing what was right."

She looked from Dallas to him.

"They raided the prison. Went through all the papers in Striker's office, and oddly enough, they found no record of either one of you."

"Yeah, imagine that," Tim said innocently. Josie stared at him, searching for an answer, then laughed and sat down on the hood of Buck's car.

"I told them I never knew your names. Said you were from Texas."

"Good girl," Tim said. He was hoping she'd find a way to cover for them. Their records were shoved inside Buck's glove box in the car.

"Striker and MacGregor are in the cell next to Jean-Rene. I can't tell you how satisfying he finds that. They found MacGregor in the bayou, treed by a mama gator."

"Serves him right."

"Striker lost a lot of blood. He would've died if it wasn't for Jean-Rene keeping him alive. They found Lee's body in the bayou. At least part of it."

"And the papers?" Tim asked. "You gave them everything on Striker and MacGregor?"

Josie nodded. "I put the papers in Roundtree's pocket when we were in the ambulance. His wife found them. I suggested she go to the neighbouring parish to report it all, and she did."

"You didn't go yourself?"

"The town wouldn't think it was nothing but grudge," she said. "Roundtree's wife isn't Cajun, she's not bayou. They think Roundtree was a hero, collecting info to expose them. I'm happy to let the town think it. He'll probably make sheriff after this."

"Where are you going to go?" Tim asked.

"Back to the cabin, of course. Back to Gummy. Hopefully Jean-Rene won't be in jail for much longer. I go back to my life. And you, cher?"

"We're getting in this fucking car and driving straight to Oklahoma, no stops," Dallas said, punctuating the air with his index finger. "Goodbye Cajun country."

Josie grinned at him. "Too much for you, cher?"

"Yeah, and I ain't afraid to say it." Dallas walked over and appraised her. "You did okay out there. 'Cept for that boneheaded move getting up and walking over to 'em like a wrapped up Christmas present."

She made a face. "You would do the same to save someone you love."

"Yeah, fat chance on that," Dallas said. "We better move. I ain't looking forward to driving the whole way. You know, you owe me a vacation, Shepard. For saving your life and all."

Tim turned back to Josie.

"I'm never gonna hear the end of this," he muttered. He raised his voice toward Dallas. "And you didn't save my life. You helped me walk, you were a glorified crutch."

"Yeah, that saved your ass."

Tim rolled his eyes.

Josie's voice was quiet when she spoke. "He's your friend. Whether you think so all the time or not."

"This is gonna be the longest punishment I ever served, driving back with him," Tim said under his breath. He looked down at Josie. Her freckles were standing out, and her eyes were tired, but there was relief in her face now.

"Take care of yourself, kid," Tim said.

"Thank you," she said.

She glanced over at Dallas, then at Tim again. Dally rolled his eyes and wandered toward the back of the car to give them some privacy.

Josie stepped toward Tim and put a hand on his chest.

"So you'll be okay?"

"I'm always okay."

She smiled at him, then leaned up and kissed him, her lips soft on his. It made him want to stay in Louisiana for one more night.

"Come on, Shepard, let's move." Dallas was picking his nails with his switchblade.

"I gotta go," he said. He walked to Buck's car and opened the passenger door. "Take care."

"You too. Both of you." She looked from Tim to Dallas and smiled. "Try not to get into any more trouble?"

Dally laughed, and Tim couldn't help but join in. "I ain't gonna make promises like that."

Dallas started the engine and pulled a u-turn off the dusty shoulder, sailing up the road toward the highway.

Tim watched Josie waving in the side mirror and raised his hand up. He watched her until she disappeared from view.

THE END

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**Author's Note: **Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who read and reviewed – I had a ton of fun writing this one. Even though I write my stories entirely before I post, your comments make me go back and change, edit and re-write parts of the story. I had some great reviews here that really helped me (especially with my massive Tim bias lol). Hopefully Dallas got to shine a little next to Tim. So thank you all for commenting - I appreciate each and every one.

I'll be posting another fic very soon – one that occurs about six to eight months before this one, featuring Tim Shepard. I decided awhile ago I needed to drive him crazy with something other than Dallas Winston lol.


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